


On The Cusp

by vesper_house



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, DCEU, Justice League (2017), Man of Steel (2013), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Crime Fighting, Enemies to Lovers, First Dates, First Time, Getting Together, Gossip, Happy Ending, Internet Famous, Investigations, Journalism, M/M, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Romantic Comedy, Secret Identity, Sex, Slow Burn, Superbat Big Bang 2019, True Love, you thought this was PG lmaoooooo think again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 18:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesper_house/pseuds/vesper_house
Summary: Clark's life isn't going so well. He's in his thirties, he works at a coffee shop run by his old crush, his journalism career is going nowhere, and he's broke. It takes only one tall, dark and handsome stranger to change everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For this Superbat Big Bang, I was lucky to partner up with some amazing artists! Show them all the love, they deserve it!
> 
> Milkie: https://milki3way.tumblr.com/post/186759492685/ive-been-off-the-face-of-the-earth-for-a-while

It’s not going to be his day.

Clark knows this the minute he gets up from the bed and trips over his laptop’s charger. He has a bad feeling about this, but goes for his morning jog anyway. That’s usually the best part of the day because of the atmosphere. Metropolis hasn’t woken up yet, not fully. The streets are eerily silent. Clouds look into mirrors of sleek skyscrapers. In the dim light of the morning they truly become modern cathedrals, destined for eternity. A calming sense of continuity prevails on the brick sidewalks. The city has been here for centuries and will stand even after all of its current residents cease to exist. Some would think it’s distressing but Clark finds it oddly comforting. Until he steps into a steaming pile of dog shit that is. “Damn it!” Those running shoes are one of the most expensive items he owns. He doesn’t finish the run and goes back to his place, which makes him ever so slightly flustered – keeping a steady routine keeps his anxiety away. Get up early, run, shower, breakfast, dress up, go to work. Easy, effective, cheaper than therapy.

Clark opens up the Typewriter all by himself today. It’s bullshit, really. There should always be two people for the opening, especially on Monday since it’s objectively the worst day of the week. Last night Barry sweet-talked him into this by saying he has to pull an all-nighter if he wants to finish his essay that’s worth nearly half of the grade. Clark doesn’t believe him one bit. College kids are just like that. After all, he was one of them not that long ago. (Although thinking about how long it has been since his graduation makes him, to put mildly, disturbed.)

If he is frank with himself, there is something magical about an empty coffee shop in the early hours of the morning. A liminal space with an air of intimacy. Quiet surroundings carry a promise of new things that are about to happen. Good or bad, life will go on ceaselessly. The sounds of the dawn is what really adds to the feeling: the happy chime of the bell by the door, the buzz of the coffee machines, the ping of the register. Bakery delivery arrives. Croissants, bagels, cookies and muffins have the most mouthwatering smell in the world. Clark puts them on display with a happy whistle. Maybe this day won’t be so bad after all. He likes it here. Lois and Diana made sure that their coffee shop combined the best qualities of cozy European cafes and all-American diners. Classy design meets familiarity. Modern meets worn-out. It could exist anywhere in the world. Perhaps that was the key to success: the Typewriter is currently one of the hottest spots in Metropolis. People always brag about making new discoveries but what they really want is to go back to what they know.

There is an old lady waiting outside the door. Clark checks the time: he still has twenty minutes before opening. It is against company’s policy to open the shop earlier, but he feels bad for making her wait in the cold. What change does one client make, right? He takes a deep breath, releases the tension he has been holding in his body, and reminds himself to think happy thoughts.

“Good morning ma’am. Welcome to the Typewriter!” He opens the door with the brightest smile he can muster at the moment. “How are you today?”

“I’ll have a large latte.” The lady walks in with her head up high, scarcely sparing him a glance. _I guess I’ll go fuck myself then, _he thinks to himself bitterly. “Coming right up, ma’am.” Clark’s smile does not falter, not one bit. “Stay or to go?”

“I won’t stay in here.” It is possibly the fastest brew he had ever prepared. There is still a few things he has to do before the place is ready for customers. Ten minutes to 7. He can do this.

“I wanted nonfat.” Clark has just finished his signature latte art tulip. “Sure, no problem,” he replies and starts all over again. His gut tells him the fun isn’t over yet. “Is there anything else I could get for you? Freshly baked croissant? A muffin?”

“I just asked for a large hazelnut latte, are you even listening to me?!” _Fucking hazelnut._ “I’m sorry ma’am, just wanted to be sure.” The woman is muttering under her breath, insulting Clark’s intelligence in the most vile tone imaginable. The screeching sound of the milk steamer brings him a weird sense of inner peace. He forgives her almost instantly - everyone is allowed to have a bad day. That latte could be the best thing that happens to her this week. No need to hold a grudge. Two girls walk in, both looking like they had a rough night at a bar. “One large hazelnut nonfat latte, here you go madame,” not a single crack shows up on Clark’s perfect smile. All he wants is to make that mean old lady a little happier. And then she hands him a hundred. He screams on the inside but at least she finally leaves. No goodbye, no tip, no “fuck off”. Clark moves on to the next order. “Hi, thank you for coming to the Typewriter. What can I get for you, ladies?”

“I don’t know,” a tall brunette says and turns to her friend. “Jen, what do you want?”

“Whatever,” Jen, a blonde, is preoccupied with texting. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Yeah, okay. Uhmmm…” The girl is making some funny faces as she scans the menu on the wall. She might be a little drunk. “Perhaps I could help?” He offers politely. “Yeah. Can I have, like, a caramel macchiatto, but without the caramel drizzle and like, extra pump of vanilla? Extra, extra vanilla?” Clark wonders if he should charge her for an actual caramel macchiatto or just a vanilla latte instead. “Of course but that’ll cost you extra.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” she reaches for her fake designer bag, “can you make it sugar-free vanilla?”

“Not a problem! So it’s gonna be two macchiattos to go?”

“Jen, you want a caramel macchiatto but like a vanilla one?”

“Vanilla? No wait, I want butterscotch. With whipped cream.”

“Oh my God, you wanna get fat or what?”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you too! Don’t come crying to me when you can’t fit in your Versace jeans anymore!”

It goes like this for a while. As they bicker in a way only rapid sobering up can excuse, new people start to pour in. The coffee shop is in less than stellar condition. A couple of tables still have chairs on them and the floor could use some mopping. Clark hopes he will get a chance to fix this before Lois shows up. “You look good making that coffee,” Jen compliments him and then giggles uncontrollably, loud enough for the rest of the crowd to hear. Fortunately her friend is too occupied with her phone to notice. “Thank you.” He isn’t exactly a pro when it comes to flirting at work. “Here’s your order. Have a nice day!”

“I hope my day is as nice as your ass!”

“Fucking hell Jen, where did you get that one?!”

“Oh my God, listen, I was texting with Nick…” They walk out as Clark stares longingly at the clock; Barry should be here any minute now. Despite the growing uneasiness, every order is served with a smile, no matter how grumpy the customers are. He is a professional. When a twenty-something white collar handles him a napkin with twelve different drinks scribbled down in an unreadable writing, Clark starts to lose his grip. The line only gets longer and longer.

“Hi, thanks for choosing the Typewriter! What can I get for you?” Barry’s upbeat voice greets the next customer. It’s like music to Clark’s ears. “You’re late,” he whispers when they meet by the fridge. “Sorry bro, won’t happen again,” he grins sheepishly. “Gimmie that list, I’ll take care of it.”

From that point everything runs smoothly, like a well-oiled machinery. They make a good team. It took them some time to adjust, but now Clark can say without a doubt that the baristas working here are his second family. The place gets calm around 9, just in time for high heels clicking on the pristine floor to announce that Lois has arrived. She waves at them briefly, talking on the phone in French. Looks like she might be having a bad day too. Clark immediately prepares a decaf cappuccino in her favorite cup. “Hey, can I leave you alone for a sec? I need to talk to Lois.” 

“Sure, I’m good,” Barry agrees, chewing. Clark notices a bitten chocolate chip cookie hidden behind a milk jug. “It was damaged, all right? It’d be a crime to just throw it away!”

“I didn’t see anything,” Clark smiles and moves to a hidden staircase leading to the office. Some could say it was more than suspicious that Lois and Clark, employer and employee, were so close to each other. He could feel some tension regarding the subject when he started working at the Typewriter, especially since he admitted to having feelings for her during their first bonding trip to the local bar. (That night was full of mistakes and this was the smallest one in retrospect.) Lois has been taken for a while now so it only added fuel to the fire. Fortunately, none of the coworkers really cared about their relationship after Clark proved to them he has an angelic patience and, more importantly, a knack for making amazing frappucinos. “Oh thank God,” Lois says as he enters the room. “Please tell me there’s caffeine in there.”

“I thought you were cured from your caffeine addiction?”

“I’m not an addict. Never was. I just like the buzz. And the taste. And the smell. And the slightly creamy texture. Ok, maybe I am an addict.” Clark puts the cup down on the desk and crushes her hopes: “You’ll have to imagine the buzz I’m afraid.” She sighs heavily. “Never mind. Coffee isn’t so great anyway. Do you know what I miss the most?”

“Wine?”

“Fucking wine,” Lois confirms and takes off her trench coat. “I had a dream about bathing in a fountain of merlot, can you believe that? It was the size of di Trevi. Bacchus himself offered me a golden cup with little bears on it. Smiling, fat teddies. Grapes were fermenting right in front of my eyes. I could’ve drown in there and die happy.”

“You… don’t actually mean that…” Clark is a little concerned. “Of course not,” she fixes her sweater over recently developed baby bump, “sometimes I just don’t feel like myself anymore.”

Leaving the Daily Planet was the hardest decision of her life. Clark witnessed her hesitation up close and personal. After years of doing her best, she got burned out. Seen too much, felt too much. Meanwhile journalism has changed thanks to the new media formats; Lois wasn’t the kind to chase after likes and shares. On top of that, she wanted to start a family with Diana. They dreamed of two kids. Lois was eager to carry the first pregnancy. That required a more stable job than going to war zones with only a pen and a notebook. She joked about flipping a coin one evening: heads for flower shop, tails for cafe. It was a great story to share over a drink with strangers but Clark knew there were plenty of other reasons why the Typewriter has been created. Still, he couldn’t really blame her for getting a little lost in this new life, even though it’s exactly what she was wishing for. “I think you’re working too much.” He sits down on a small sofa. “Maybe it would be a good idea for you to take some time off?”

“I can’t.” She takes a sip from the cup. “That pompous French bastard is giving me a headache. We really have to find a new supplier or else I’m gonna strangle him with a shoelace. And I hate being in that huge apartment all by myself.” She drops the last part as if it’s supposed to be an afterthought, but it tells more about her general state of mind than anything else she has said this morning. Clark picks up on it instantly. “When’s Diana coming back?” He asks, careful not to sound too sympathetic. “This Friday.” For the first time since they have started this conversation her face lightens up a little. “She’s already done with filming. There’s some additional shooting left and then she’s free. I’m throwing a little welcome home party on Saturday, you in?”

“Sure!”

“Good! Come over at seven. Bring real booze, I’m not gonna ruin anyone’s fun.” She takes another sip. “By the way, I’ve scheduled an appointment with my doc. We’re gonna find out if it’s a boy or a girl.”

“That’s great!” Clark shouts happily. “Just so you know, I’m gonna get mad if you don’t send me the ultrasound pic right away.” 

“You’re gonna be the first person to get it, promise,” she says. “That’s a damn good cappuccino by the way.”

“Thank you” he bows his head, ”I’ve learned from the best. Listen, I, uh… I wanted to ask… Did you have a chance to talk to Perry?” The look she sends him has a similar effect to a car running into a store gallery at full speed. “I have. I’m sorry, they’re not looking for anyone. They haven’t really moved on from the crisis yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Clark doesn’t want to sound rude but he is fed up. He has heard all of this before, quite often and in great detail. At every single paper he had applied for a job to be precise. “Thanks anyway. I appreciate it.”

“Clark, it doesn’t mean you will never get there,” Lois says. “If you really want this, you will succeed. Dreams like that don’t die.” 

“It’s not a big deal, Lo,” he smiles because really, he is used to this. Besides, he is in the middle of the working day – it would be a bad idea to have a breakdown when there’s still a lot of people he has to deal with, all while carrying a huge smile on his face. This is not his dream job but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t give it his absolute best. Feeling sorry for himself can wait until after working hours. “Thank you for believing in me.”

“You’re a good journalist, Clark,” she says in earnest. “You already are. It’s not like endorsing a talented writer is a heavy cross to carry. Just don’t give up, okay?” _I kind of already did._ “Sure,” he says, throat a bit too tight, “now excuse me, this talented writer has some lattes to brew.”

“They’re all a delicious, delightful treat, brought to us by angels from the diamond plate of the God Himself.” Lois takes a loud sip of her cappuccino to highlight the point. Clark rolls his eyes. “I’m a fan of yours but waxing poetic isn’t your style. Leave that to Diana.” 

“Fine. No compliments from me.” She laughs, showing off her gorgeous smile. “Get back to work, Smallville!”

“Yes sir,” he says mockingly. As soon as he closes the door to her office, he lets out a deep, frustrated sigh he has been holding on for far too long. There are two forces inside of him, scratching and pulling at his soul: one says that he should be grateful for what he has. In this economy, having a stable job, a decent apartment, basic health and dental insurance while living in a big city is a luxury many people couldn’t afford. He is living the good life, all the basic needs satisfied. The other asks for something _more:_ a want to make an impact, to change the world, to risk the commodities of ordinary life in order to achieve something greater. It’s not the fame he seeks but leaving an imprint. That’s why he was drawn to journalism in the first place. It was all about making a difference. Giving a voice to the voiceless because even if it wouldn’t make their situation better, they would know that someone cares. Someone _should_ care when the innocent are suffering. Is it really so wrong to want something more out of life? Is it nothing more than an ego trip of a guy a little over thirty without any major accomplishments to date? Everybody say he should keep on trying, to follow his dreams, but what if his dreams are completely out of reach? What if pursuing them _hurts_ so goddamn much? Is there a finite number of tries?

Someone shows up at the bottom of the stairs. Clark pulls himself in less than a second – he has mastered that skill to perfection. “Hi,” he says, voice cheerful as a cricket on a hot summer evening, ”I thought it’s your day off?”

“Hi. Yeah, it is,” Mera’s vibrant red hair shine in the dim light of the staircase, “but I have talk to Lois. You better get to the bar. I saw a group of high school girls coming in.”

“I’ll take care of it!” Clark doesn’t understand why he always gets nervous around Mera. It could be seen as a natural thing since she is the assistant manager, yet there is something... intimidating about her. None of the clients ever dared to treat her like trash. She is never rude or condescending. She just oozes the kind of power one can feel while looking at old pictures of European monarchs in full regalia. Some people just walk down the street like its theirs, and Mera owned the whole world.

“…grande isn’t a size around here, miss.” Hysterical giggling erupts from the counter. Clark can hear that Barry is using his special teenager voice. He was a teenager himself not that long ago so it comes out pretty natural. The girls smile, delighted to find a kindred spirit in a coffee shop. “And here’s our very own frappuccino specialist!” Barry beams up when he sees Clark coming out of the back office. “My buddy here is gonna make some mean caramel frappuccinos for you, isn’t that right?”

“Sure is!” Clark feels like some of the tiny muscles in his face have been frozen for good. The girls giggle even harder, awkward and red-cheeked. Clark reminds himself to be kind. Maybe it’s their special gal pal afternoon they’re going to remember for the rest of their lives. Why should he patronize them when he wasn’t exactly the cool, popular, homecoming king type in high school? He makes the frappuccinos, cracks some jokes with Barry and tries to ignore the heated looks he receives from the bunch. Being an object of a hopeless crush is the last thing he needs right now. “You okay, big guy?” Barry asks when the customers leave. “You seem…” he makes some ridiculous gestures with his hands, “…extinguished.”

“I’m okay,” he lies. “Although a day off would be nice, I guess.”

“Hey, I’m always here if you want me to fill in for you!” The younger man reassures him with a smile. “Just not this weekend, I have two essay deadlines incoming. And oh, not the next week, I’m having a test with this really, really mean guy. Cut-throat bastard, everyone hates him. After that we’re going to have a practical study, you know, on an actual dead body, like corpses everywhere, and I really can’t miss that but then…”

“I get it,” Clark interrupts. “Thanks for the offer. You should stay focused on school though.” He wants to add that college degrees don’t mean shit anyway but he refuses to be _that _person. At least Barry chose a field that’s actually useful. “Okay dad,” he says and proceeds to get the mugs out of the dishwasher. Mera shows up suddenly, looking slightly pissed off: “Hey, can you get me the usual?”

“Coming right up.” Clark knows her usual is americano, no extras. He picked up on it on his first day to impress her. “What did you talk about with Lois, if I may ask?”

“You may not,” Mera checks her emails. Long nails painted blue tap on the screen loudly. “Sorry big guy, it’s personal,” she adds in a more friendly tone. “Understood.” Clark still puts extra effort into making her coffee. She’s the only person from the team he considers to be more of a work colleague than a friend. He is big enough of a man to admit he’s a little bit scared of her. Fortunately others share the sentiment: Barry does not even try to chat with her – not after the epic scolding she gave him just a few days ago. To be fair, he did deserve it. Mostly. Perhaps without the anger. Clark doesn’t like to take sides. “Is it just me or is it freeeeezing in here?” Barry jokingly clangs his teeth when Mera steps outside. Clark gives him a pointed look. “Don’t be like that. She’s good at running this business.”

“Look, I don’t have anything against her,” Barry says, “I’m just not a fan of arctic temperatures. Watching Frozen made me terribly uncomfortable. She just gives off that ice queen vibe, you know?”

“Barry…” Clark warns him gently. “All right, all right,” he mutters under his breath. Another customer comes in and that is the end of discussion. They fall into a familiar rhythm. At times like these, Clark really enjoys his job. It’s like playing a part in the symphony of great city. The late morning sun invigorates the whole room and the people alike. Names like Lane and Prince are a magnet to the intellectual, artsy part of the Metropolis crowd. “And hipsters,” Barry would add, “they’re all hipsters.” Lois made sure that the furniture was comfortable enough to entice people to sit down and write. Clark recognizes a few regulars who are established writers and tries very, very hard to contain his jealousy. However, they’re a bitter reminder that he’s not where he was supposed to be at this age: at thirty three years old, he should be sitting with them, talking about important stuff, not being stuck behind a bar to serve them coffee, _dammit._ This is not what he imagined when he was younger. _I think I’m going through a midlife crisis,_ he thinks and sighs. Vacation would be really nice.

Vic comes in fifteen minutes before noon. He does not acknowledge them at all, just storms to the back room which is totally unlike him. Clark and Barry exchange questioning looks. “Mind if I take a lunch break?” Clark asks. “Nah bro, it’s pretty quiet. See what got him all riled up. You’re better at talking to people.” Clark hums – he heard that before. Victor is nowhere to be seen, so he moves to the emergency exit. It leads to a gloomy back alley: places like these don’t really match up to the clean, modern look the city of Metropolis is trying to sell to the world. He finds Victor smoking by the dumpster: it’s a bad sign – Victor has a love and hate relationship with cigarettes, the love part coming to life when everything else goes to hell in a hand basket. “Hey,” Clark sits on a pile of empty boxes, “good to see you.”

“Hi. Yeah, you too.”

“How was Gotham?”

“You know Gotham...” Victor says flatly, staring at the cracks in the pavement. Clark doesn’t know Gotham, not by firsthand experience anyway. His knowledge about the city on the other side of the bay is limited to a handful of urban legends, occasional terrifying news reels, what Vic has said in the past (“I’m proud of Gotham, keep your shitty opinions to yourself,”) and what Barry adds (“I dunno man, I heard that in Gotham even coffee mugs bite you and then steal your watch”). He lets the man have a moment of peace: he is pretty sure Vic will spill the beans eventually. A huge softie is hiding under a tough guy act. Clark unwraps his sandwich and munches on it in silence but he can’t enjoy it – he forgot to put tomato in his BLT sandwich. “Oh my God,” he cries out loud, “can this day just end already?”

“What is it?” Vic asks sympathetically. “I didn’t put any tomato in my BLT,” Clark explains. “Now it’s just a BL. Bullshit. Man, I thought this would be the best part of the day but no. How the hell could I screw this up?”

“Yeah, I get you,” Vic says, “it’s the little things, right? You never know what’s going to be the last straw until it kicks your balls.”

“Yep, precisely,” Clark agrees. “It wouldn’t hurt if something nice happened.”

“Any cute girls today?”

“Not really. Not my type anyway.”

“Cute boys?”

“One guy left a five dollar tip. That makes him nearly irresistible.”

“Man, you’re so easy,” Vic laughs. “All it takes is a date at McDonald’s parking lot and you’re in.”

“Excuse you, I have standards!” Clark says, outraged. “Double patty at Big Belly Burger or I won’t put out.”

“Yeah right. I bet a kebab from that food truck at the harbor would do the trick, too.”

“Kebab _and _a cold beer, thank you very much,” Clark smiles. “Anyway, look who’s talking. How’s your dating life, Don Juan de Tinder?”

“Shut up,” Vic says jokingly and throws the cigarette butt to the ground without thinking. He pauses, gives Clark a look, then picks it up. Clark nods his head in approval when it ends up in the trash. “Anyway, I talked to my dad…” Victor says angrily, biting the inside of his cheek. “It was pointless. No matter what I do, I’ll always be a disappointment. Nothing is good enough. I feel like, even if I did everything the way he wanted me to do, it still wouldn’t be enough, you know? He’d still find something to nitpick and paint me as the loser.” Clark doesn’t say a word, giving Vic a chance to vent uninterrupted. “Don’t get me wrong man, I’m not perfect, I know I’m not, but just…” He sighs. “A little help would be nice, you know?”

“Yeah.” Clark remembers the pitying look on Lois’ face. “I get it.”

“If only the prices in this goddamn city didn’t skyrocket every time I blink.” Victor does not like Metropolis – he made that very clear in almost every chit chat they have had so far. This begs to ask why won’t he just go back to Gotham. Clark doesn’t have the full story but aside from Vic’s dad general unpleasantness and his mother’s sudden death, he heard that there was some bad crowd involved. Then again, that part of the story came from Barry after a few beers. “I know,” Clark sighs. “My rent went up again.”

“Shit man, really?” For a second, Vic actually disbelieves. “Have you thought about getting a roommate? I know a few guys who’d kill for that location.” Clark munches on his sandwich. It’s not that he didn’t think about. He just… really doesn’t want to do it. Getting a nice apartment on his own was one of the very few things that made him feel like a proper adult. Going back to sharing a living space with strangers feels too much like admitting defeat and honestly, he just needs that one tiny victory to keep his sanity. “Thanks, but I’m gonna be all right. The raise isn’t so bad, you know.”

“Yeah but you already had one, like, three months ago? Did Luthor had some investments in your area?”

“Actually yeah, he did,” Clark confirms. “There’s this new shopping mall two blocks from my place. It looks like Luthor’s building.”

“Fuck that guy,” Vic laments. “Before I moved to Metropolis, I thought gentrification wasn’t a real thing, can you believe that?” Their conversation is interrupted by Barry showing at the door. “Hey guys, hate to ruin your little randez vous but there’s a line and we’re out of butterscotch.”

“Don’t be like that, boo,” Victor says, “you know you’re the only one.”

“Oh so now you wanna get on my good side,” Barry scolds him but doesn’t stop smiling. “You betta work!”

“Be right there, princess.” Barry disappears inside of the building. Vic follows him almost immediately but first he asks: “You need anything, Big K?” _Peace and quiet. A hug. A hot bath. Steak and mashed potatoes. New car. Scented candle. Will to live. Damn good fuck._ “Nope, I’m good.” Clark replies, stopping the thoughts in their tracks before they get too depressing. “Thanks man.”

“You sure? No soy cheesecake mocha frappuccino with fifty five pumps of caramel?”

“Sorry, can’t hear you over my own internal screaming.” After he is left alone, Clark’s thoughts wander to the time when he still had a chance to talk to Pa. What would he do today? Would he look for advice? Would they fight? Would Clark move back to Kansas? Would Pa give him a lecture about what it means to be a real man? He will never know. It’s unfair but he is just a little bit jealous of Vic’s problems. Nothing is ever simple. Not even making a goddamn BLT sandwich for lunch apparently. Clark finishes his food and takes a look around the back alley. It looks kind of romantic in the gentle sunlight, like a place where Audrey Hepburn could sit in one of the windowsills and sing about rivers on the moon. Then two stray cats start fighting over empty tuna can and the nice atmosphere is gone. He sighs, checking the watch: one more hour. He can do this.

Barry seems to be performing a weird contemporary dance act. It takes a second before Clark realizes that he is trying to get rid of vanilla syrup from his apron. “I’m so sticky, sticky, stiiiicky, sticky icky Barry,” he whispers in a sing-song voice. Looks like it’s not his day either. Clark immediately takes his place at the register. The place got busy again – lunch hour rush is about to hit in full force. All three of them say the same stuff over and over and over again:

“Hi, thank you for choosing the Typewriter!”

“What size?”

“Sorry no, we don’t have rice milk, we only have soy.”

“We serve small, medium, large and extra large.”

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

“Decaf?”

“We need more ice.”

“Grande isn’t a size, sir.”

“Hot or iced?”

“Can you repeat that one more time, please?”

“To go?”

“Okay, now we REALLY need more ice.”

“That’ll cost extra.”

“Thank you! Have a great day!”

By now it felt more like a fever dream than having civil conversations with people but if Clark managed to get to the state of flow, he actually really loved the job. Manual labor always gave him a lot of joy. That’s why he is attracted to investigative journalism: he has to move, talk to people, dig for clues instead of being glued to the desk. He’d be a good farmer, too, just like his father wanted. For now, Clark finds that there is something pure about serving people with a gesture as small as making them coffee. A simple human exchange that could make a whole lot of difference. Clark likes to think that a sip of coffee prepared by him brings some of the customers a moment of bliss. Even if it lasts for a second, it’s still worth it…

“What kind of idiot doesn’t know what a frappe is?!” A middle-aged man in a fishing jacket yelps so loudly that the entire place can hear him. Clark counts to three before replying. “Sorry sir, I believe that’s frappuccino you’re asking for?...”

“Are you fucking deaf or something? I want a frappe!”

“Sir, you can get frappe only at McDonald’s but our beverage is pretty much the same.”

“Don’t tell me what I can order or not! Get me a goddamn frappe!” _I’ll make sure it’s decaf with a hint of my spit._ “Of course, sir,” he says with a bitter smile. “One frappe coming right up. Large or medium?”

“Grande. I always take grande.” Clark almost, _almost_ wants to inform him that they are not Starbucks either but he keeps his mouth shut. Less than forty minutes and he will be free. Vic gives him a knowing look. The milk steamer screeches loudly and that’s probably the best way to express Clark’s mental state right now. He believes kindness has to be a conscious choice and constant effort… But why oh why is it so hard to be nice when your job is to simply make people feel a little better?

“Watch out!” Barry yells when it’s already too late: a large mocha with extra whipped cream ends up on Clark’s shirt and apron. “Fuck, I’m so sorry man…” Clark just sighs. Twenty minutes of the shift left. “Don’t worry buddy, I have another one in the back room.”

“You can change here, baby!” A group of college girls starts to cheer. _I’d rather die._ “Remake that drink and take the register, will you?” He honestly can’t help it if his voice sounds a little too clamped. The buzz from the floor is muted in their private corner. Apart from that, it’s blissfully silent. Clark can’t wait to go back to his apartment and spend the rest of the day doing absolutely nothing. He should finish that article about unemployed veterans; he has been stuck on it for days. A few more won’t change anything. It’s not like anyone waits with bated breath to read it or even better – to make it go public on paper. Today isn’t the day for writing. Clark roams around the room: the only company shirt left is a size too small. That’ll have to do. It’s just fifteen more minutes. “You okay bro? Hope I didn’t burn you,” Barry has a worried look on his face. It’s always so damn hard to get mad at him. “I’m fine, bro,” he cracks a smile – this time it’s genuine. The minutes pass in a haze, slow like honey dripping from a spoon. Sea of faces is swarming in front of Clark’s eyes. He checks the clock anxiously. It sure would be nice of him if he stayed a bit longer to help the guys with the line…

“Hi, welcome to the Typewriter,” he says absently, “what can I get for you?”

“How about a smile for a good start, hmm?”


	2. Chapter 2

A black hole sucks the last remains of positive attitude right out of Clark’s soul. He can actually feel the muscles in his face trembling from the effort of keeping up a pleasant expression. “Great idea,” he says, trying to relax his jaw, “what about your order?”

“Straight to the point. I like that,” the man smirks. Only one corner of his mouth goes up. Clark wants to point out that they are at the peak hour but when he looks around, there is no line. Strange. He completely missed the moment when the place got quiet. The customer keeps his eyes on him, almost daring. Clark scans him quickly: tall, dark and handsome. A classic. Just one look is enough to make one fact painfully obvious – the guy is loaded. Probably one of the businessmen working in the office center a few blocks from here. Sometimes they feel adventurous enough to leave their natural habitat and step into one of the indie coffee shops. To them it must feel like a trip to the zoo. The guy’s coat is too lush for a lawyer but not flashy enough for a creative director of an ad agency. Finance is Clark’s best guess. Probably a stock broker. Seems like the type who carries coke in his breast pocket and lights up cigars with hundred dollar bills. Perfectly clean on the outside, rotten on the inside. “That’s my job, sir,” he puts some emphasis on the last word. “So what’s it gonna be?”

“I’m open to suggestions, sugar,” the brunet leans slightly on the counter and then obviously, shamelessly, openly, honest-to-God checks him out. He’s so fucking cocky Clark wants to punch him in the face. This is the kind of guy who is used to getting everything he wants, when he wants. The kind of guy who plays on the easy mode since the day he was born. So full of himself he’s almost floating. Being nice to him somehow feels demeaning. “Coffee,” Clark says, suppressing his irritation. “Sure. Just tell me when and where.” The shit eating grin grows three times on the stranger’s face. “That’s what we sell here, sir,” Clark keeps his voice stern, “I still haven’t heard your order.”

“Oh, I’m definitely buying what you’re selling,” the customer says and winks. Clark is ready to go off and be rude: he doesn’t fucking care if they are going to get a bad review on the Internet, that lewd motherfucker is the final straw on this shit show of a day-

“Bruce Wayne?!” Vic throws the dirty cups he gathered from the tables into the sink, his eyes comically wide and round. “Oh my God! It’s an honor to have you here, sir!”

“The pleasure is all mine,” the man says, politely stretching out his hand. “I’m sensing a fellow Gothamite here, am I wrong?”

“Born and raised in Granton, sir,” Vic shakes Wayne’s hand with enthusiasm while Clark stands there awkwardly and tries to figure out what the hell is going on. “I’m Vic, Victor Stone by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Victor. Say, are you related to the Stones working at the S.T.A.R. Labs by any chance?” For a brief moment, Victor’s eyes turn icy cold. “Yes sir, they’re my parents.”

“No way! It’s a small world after all,” Bruce says, sees an opportunity and takes it. “What about your friend here?”

“Who, Clark? Nah, he has never stepped a foot in Gotham, haven’t you bro?” Vic pats him on the back vigorously. Clark wishes he could communicate _please don’t give my personal info to an obnoxious guy who’s hitting on me_ without words but all he can do is smile (for the millionth time today) and confirm: “No, I never had the opportunity.”

“Damn, I have to take you for a trip one day!”

“Sounds like a good plan.” Wayne approves and takes out his wallet. “Victor, would you be so kind and get me a large bull’s eye to go?”

“Of course mister Wayne,” for some reason his eagerness annoys Clark to no end. “Any extras, sir? Cream, syrup?”

“No, thanks. Clark’s number would be nice though.” And in that moment, Clark wants to die. This is such an asshole move. Wayne deliberately put him in a position where he is going to look like a jackass if he rejects his advances. It’s not only about Vic: he is almost certain that a girl sitting in the corner is taking pictures of them so it’s public humiliation on all fronts. “Oooh, okay, all right,” Vic cheers, “it’s not my division, mister Wayne, you have to ask the man in question for that. I’m out,” he sways off to the coffee machine, pretending to be innocuous, but the three of them know he is going to eavesdrop the hell out of this conversation. Uncomfortable, weird, awful conversation. “Have you two… met before?” Clark asks because he still hasn’t figured out why Vic is so excited to meet a guy in a nice suit, and why does he know the guy’s name anyway? “I’m notorious for many things in Gotham,” Wayne says, clearly amused. “I can tell you all about them over dinner. Tonight, if you want.”

“Thanks but I have to say no,” Clark decides to be blunt. “I’ve already made some plans.” Bruce studies his face for a second, not buying a single word. “So, Clark,” the unhappy barista could swear his name has never been said in such a lewd way, “are you seeing someone?”

“This really isn’t any of your business,” Clark goes all in for the straightforward approach, bordering on being rude. He takes a hundred dollar bill from Wayne’s hand. “Keep the change,” he says. _Of course._ Everyone has to know how rich he is, otherwise it wouldn’t count. “Didn’t mean to offend you,” Wayne’s voice gets softer. “Can’t blame me for taking a shot though, can you?”

“Guess not,” Clark accepts the unspoken peace offering. “No offence taken by the way_,” but you’re still annoying._ “Great!” Wayne’s full blown smile seems even more fake then the smug grin he carried earlier. Victor brings his drink. “Here you go, sir!”

“Thanks. Is Lois in her office?” Clark’s heart suddenly drops to his stomach. _Crap. He knows Lo. Crap, crap, fuck, shit. I’m gonna get into so much trouble. _“Yeah, right this way and up the stairs, sir,” Vic explains. “She should see you right away.”

“All right, thanks again.” Wayne salutes them both and goes in the advised direction. Once Clark is sure he is out of sight, he whispers to Victor: “Who is this guy?”

“Dude.” Vic shakes his head in disbelieve. “You gotta be kidding me. You really don’t know who Bruce Wayne is?”

“Enlighten me, please.”

“I thought you were a journalist, man, what the fuck? How can you not know who Bruce motherfucking Wayne is?”

“I’m not a walking Google engine,” Clark says. “And he knows Lois? What the hell? I’ve never seen him before.”

“I bet your ass did see him, just not in this place,” Vic laughs. “Ever heard of the Wayne family? Like, _the_ Waynes?”

“What, the Kennedys of the…” Clark’s face falls when the fragments of a puzzle start to connect. “Oh.”

“_Oh_ indeed, Smallville,” Vic chuckles, “and you turned him down. Please tell me why by the way. Not manly enough? Too manly? Hair too shiny? Clothes too tailored?”

“He’s…” _too perfect for me to feel good around him,_ “not my type.”

“Bullshit, he’s everyone’s type. Hell, he is _my_ type. “

“Then go out with him. He looks for a hook up, obviously.”

“Aw yeah, the guy has a reputation. I’ve heard he had a thing with Diana.”

“Who had a thing with Diana?” Barry emerges from the back office, chewing on a granola bar.“Oh, no one. Just Bruce Wayne, the billionaire from Gotham who was hitting on Clark seconds ago.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

“Nuh-uh, he’s talking to Lois right as we speak. And he asked for Smallville’s number after he ordered his coffee.”

“No. Way.” Barry turns to Clark for confirmation. All he can do is to roll his eyes. “He acted like an entitled dick, okay? I don’t wanna date someone like that.”

“I leave you guys for like five minutes and THIS happens?!” Barry looks devastated. “What the fuck?”

“So you know who he is?”

“Pfft, no, it’s not like I wanted to be like him since I was twelve years old or something…”

“Well, there’s your chance to meet your idol,” Clark says and looks at the clock. Relief washes over him. “Bye guys, it’s about time for me to get out of here.”

“So you’re really not going to give him your number?” Barry asks, genuinely shocked. Clark just waves. “Laters,” he shouts as he disappears into the back room. Taking off the too tight work shirt feels like newly discovered sense of freedom. It will only last until tomorrow morning. He changes and leaves quickly without looking back, almost as if he’s very determined to avoid someone tall, dark and handsome.

\---

“They’ve basically told us to go to hell,” Kara says, cold rage filling her voice. “Like, I know we’re not the only non profit organization in Metropolis but are they for real? We’re just trying to feed poor kids for God’s sake! It’s not like I’m going to use that money to wipe my ass with dollar bills.”

“Don’t worry,” Clark comforts her, “we’re gonna find another way.”

“Where? I’ve used up all of my contacts. People like to help when it’s Christmas but after that your cause becomes a pain in the ass. They’re thinking give a hand and they’ll take an arm, I can see it in their faces when I show up.”

“Please try to calm down. Not everything is lost.” Kara lets out a long, frustrated sigh and rubs her forehead. “I just don’t know…” she takes a deep breath. “If things gonna stay the way they are right now, we will have to close before the year ends.”

Kara has founded the Hut right after graduating from college. It was a bold move but she always wanted to have a job that was more about helping people than making money. The modest headquarters provided a spacious community hall with kitchen, free English lessons, legal aid for immigrants, and a youth club for the kids from poor neighborhoods. From time to time, Kara used her magic to talk some doctors into performing medical check-ups pro bono. Clark worked there as a volunteer since the beginning, first to help with paper work and PR matters, then to teach children reading and writing. Now he is sort of a go-to guy for anything that needs to be done. Kara’s next goal is to open up a canteen so everyone who comes in can have a free meal. With the current state of the Hut’s finances, that goal is painfully out of reach.

“Diana’s coming back in a couple of days. I’ll talk to her. Perhaps we could organize a proper fund-raiser. You know, with ridiculously tiny canapés and men wearing some ancient medals,” Clark tries to cheer her up although he isn’t really in the mood for smiling. “Diana and Lois have done so much for us already,” Kara walks in circles. “We need to think of some new ways. Constant financing, that’s what we need. Donations will only get us this far. I mean, right now I barely sleep at night and we still need to figure out where to get school supplies for the kids…” 

“We can think about it later,” Clark reassures. “Don’t worry. We’re gonna keep this place open.” He would love to add “I promise”, full stop, but this is not a good time for making promises. “Soon you’re going to cook for dozens of kids. You’re going to hate it so much. I kinda can’t wait for that.” Kara chuckles quietly and punches him in the arm. “Dork.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“You’re always the biggest dork in the room,” finally, a smile shows on her face. “This dork got herself a date, can you say the same about yourself?”

“Oh really? Do I know him?” Clark really doesn’t want the conversation to move to the topic of his love life. Then again, he would prefer that than talking about his career. “No, I’ve just met him at a bar. His name is Dave, he’s a software developer. Likes punk rock and has a cute dog.”

“Is he cute as well or are you just after the dog?”

“Yeah, he’s pretty cute,” Kara is blushing a little. “I have a good feeling about this. He’s giving me good vibes so far. He just seems kinda… normal. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Clark says. In his experience, “normal” usually meant a few different things: loyal, kind, funny, smart and, perhaps more importantly, drama-free. “When are you going to see him?”

“Friday,” she says, trying to hide her excitement. “We’re going to the movies and then we’ll see.”

“Fingers crossed then.”

“So have you met anyone interesting recently?” Cocky smirk. Expensive suit. Tall, dark and handsome. “No, no I haven’t,” he forcibly pushes that image to the farthest corner of his mind. Kara frowns. “I don’t get it. You’re a barista, you should be drowning in pussy.”

“Please, don’t ever say that again…” 

“What? It’s true! There’s not a lot of jobs where you can meet so many people in one day.”

“I… don’t like it when people hit on me at work,” he admits. “It’s just so awkward. I’m busy, I never know what to say, the milk is overheating....”

“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

“It is bad. Especially when people come up with awful pick up lines. God, that’s the worst.”

“Aaaww, poor Clarky,” she mocks him in a friendly way. “I just don’t feel comfortable, okay?”

“Eh, it’s all right. Somehow I’m not worried about you like, at all. You’re the type that’s gonna fall hard and live happily ever after, you’ll see.” _Wish I believed in that too._ “Thanks, Kara,” he says. They close the Hut and part ways. Clark rides his bike through sleepy Metropolis. It has been years since he moved here but the sight of skyscrapers bathed in the sunset light still gets to him. So many people, so many stories. The heart of the city beats with thousands of lifelines. For all of his complaining and missing the rural charm of Smallville, he enjoys being one of them.

Before he goes home, he drops by the pet shelter to take one of the dogs for a walk. Today’s lucky guy is Marty, a four year old jack russell terrier. Despite his small frame, he plays catch likes there’s no tomorrow. Clark always wanted to have a big house and finally be able to adopt all the pets he desires. His current landlord doesn’t even allow hamsters in the building. That’s one of the few reasons why he misses Kansas. “You’d love to run on a field all day long, wouldn’t you?” Marty pants happily and licks Clark’s hand. Bringing the dog back to the shelter is a small heartbreak but the workers insist it’s better than sitting in a cage for the entire day. They’re the only no kill institution in Metropolis – this means they struggle more than a typical shelter. Clark can’t give them a lot of money but he can walk the dogs from time to time. That and the people at the Hut is what keeps him going on most days. Feeling useful is infinitely better than feeling nothing.

Clark spends the rest of the evening the way he’s used to – alone. He jogs in the park nearby, listening to songs he has liked since high school. After moving to the city, working out became a real hobby of his. This isn’t to say he resented physical activities in the past: Clark always loved sports. Now they just mean more to him than before – it’s one of the very few things he can do for fun without spending any money. It also clears his mind, although sometimes he wonders if it’s really purification or just another form of escape from his own thoughts. Nothing made him feel better than exhausting his body to the point of breaking, taking a hot shower, and going to sleep immediately. It looks like he’s not going to be able to achieve that state of bliss today. Not with the way Lois’ sympathetic eyes and her _I’m sorry, Clark_ echoes constantly in his brain. The fresh memory stings like a dagger to the heart. He chews on his microwave dinner while watching a show he doesn’t really follow but it’s kind of funny and the actors are likeable so that’s more than enough right now. There’s other stuff he should be doing, he is aware of it. Writing, that is. He hasn’t posted anything on his blog in a month. Then again, no one really reads it. He gets a comment once in a blue moon and his stats are disheartening. He’s not proud of it but he often gets jealous when other people get recognized and featured on big new sites. Clark really doesn’t want to deal with all of this today. Not after another rejection. He’ll get back to it once he feels a little better. More self-confident. It’s not the end of the world if he doesn’t post anything for a day or two. Yet the feeling of guilt nags him, grows stronger as the night falls, so he tries to dodge it by calling the only person on planet Earth he can be completely honest with. “Hey Ma, sorry for calling this late.”

“It’s all right, dear,” her voice is, as usual, a chicken soup for his soul. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just… wanted to say hi, I guess.”

“Oh, honey,” she melts. “You should come visit. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I was just thinking about it, actually. I’ve been pretty homesick lately.”

“Well, I don’t blame me you. I can imagine it’s hard to be lonely in such a big city.”

“It’s not so bad, Ma. Although I do miss the silence at night. Over here there’s always something. Cars, alarms, people on the street, you know. I can hear the traffic right now even though my windows are shut.” He sighs louder than he expected. “I miss looking at the stars, too. The light pollution in this city is a real horror.”

“The sky is beautiful tonight. I think I can see Venus,” she says. Clark can hear that she is walking outside on the porch. When Pa was still alive, they had picnics at night, taking turns to observe the celestial bodies through a telescope Clark bought on a garage sale. It probably still lays somewhere in the attic, dusty and forgotten, like many other summer memories. “I can only see a bright orb,” Clark says wistfully, “and I don’t know for certain if it’s the moon or just some new, fancy billboard.”

“Speaking of, we’re gonna have a supermoon on the fifth, did you know that?”

“No, I haven’t. I’ll write myself a memo.”

“You could come over so we could it watch it together,” Ma suggests. “That sounds like a great idea,” Clark says, already making plans in his head, “I’m gonna check my shifts tomorrow. How’s your work by the way?”

“Same ol’, same ol’. Joe Harris got divorced again, so he comes over twice a day because he can’t even make a butter toast by himself. Patty has her eyes on him. I’m expecting a wedding next year. I have a bet with Carrie-Ann that it’s gonna happen in the spring.”

“That’s cynical of you, Ma,” Clark scorns. “Hush child, let the two old ladies have their fun,” she chuckles. “What about your job? How’s Lois doing?”

“She’s good. The baby bump really shows, you can’t miss it. But I think she misses Diana a lot. She’ll be back next week though.”

“That’s great! I love that show of hers. Do you know when the new season will go on air?”

“No idea. I’ll ask her when she gets back.” 

“Thanks, dear. And have you met someone special yet?” _Here we go again. And to think we were doing so great._ “Mom…”

“What? You never tell me anything.” Oh, he would love to tell her everything. All about that one special person’s cute quirks. How they’ve met and how their first date went. About when he is going to meet the friends and the parents. Everything about them buying a house together to escape the city. Ask Ma for advice on how to propose.

Thing is, there is nothing to talk about. At all. Clark genuinely can’t remember when was the last time he was interested in someone. However, he does remember the last time he had sex (what a complete disaster that was) and how freaking long ago it happened (he would rather die than reveal the actual date to any of his friends). The girl was missing his ex, he was going through his unrequited crush on Lois, they were drinking tequila. After that, he decided that he was done with one night stands: not that it was a habit of his – compared to other guys his age, his number is very low – but because it was so depressingly unsatisfying. Nowadays Clark often feels like the hook up culture is some kind of an inside joke he just doesn’t get. Some people had to enjoy it, of course, but the older he gets, the more he realizes how overrated casual sex really is. It didn’t make him happy. He decided that the next person he sleeps with will be someone he has fallen for head over hills. Sex without love lacks flavor. And so he waited, taking his time to meet new people in the big city. When he moved to Metropolis, he felt there was no rush. His dates were… nice. Sometimes lovable even, and always without the part two. The spark just wasn’t there. No matter how hard he tried, he remained single. Years went by and all of a sudden he became a 33 year old weirdo who’s most serious relationship was his high school sweetheart, Lana – a kind of baggage no one expects to carry into their adult lives. Clark used to think that at 30 years old he will have a career, a ring on his finger, a spouse in his bed and a baby on his arm. None of this happened. A crippling feeling haunts him at night: a feeling that somehow, in the grand scheme of the universe, the great race, the only race there is, he is _late._ “Clark, did something happen?” Ma sounds worried. “I won’t pry if you don’t wanna tell. But I’m always here for you.” He sighs heavily, rubbing at his temple. “Nothing happened, believe me. And that’s kind of the point,” he pauses, wondering if it’s going to bother her, “nothing ever happens.”

“That’s life, isn’t it?” Ma says, a tone of sadness pouring into her voice. “There are those beautiful, unforgettable moments, and then there’s routine.”

“I don’t really mind the routine, really. It’s just…” he has to swallow before saying this out loud, “I thought there was more to life.” Surprisingly, his confession makes her laugh softly. “Oh my baby boy, you’re so young and yet you wanna sound like you’ve seen it all. Don’t let a couple of bad days make you believe that life is awful. There’s still so much ahead of you.”

“I’m just…” _disappointed with myself,_ “I don’t know, maybe I’m just tired.” A sudden realization hits him: lately he has been saying a lot how tired he feels. “Yeah, you definitely sound like it. Come home, darling. A good rest can work miracles.”

“I’ll think about it,” he promises. They stay silent for a while. “I love you, Ma.”

“I love you too. Don’t think that being alone means you’re unloved.”

“I’ll try. Thanks, Ma. Goodnight.”

“Nighty night, dear.” Clark hangs up with a heavy heart. Despite her encouraging, loving words, he still feels like he’s disappointing her. Not only did he left her alone in Smallville in order to pursue his dream, but he didn’t give anything in return – not a professional success nor a daughter-in-law or a child. Current situation hurts both of them and Clark is so desperate to make her proud. If only he could get one shot, he would surely capture it. Regrettably, anyone who calls the shots isn’t even looking in his direction, and he never had much luck anyway. Which probably could explain why he drops his phone on the kitchen tiles. “No!” Clark yells. Device hits the floor and splits in two separate pieces. The screen is shattered. Dead. “Why… Just…” He hides his face in his hands so he can pretend for a second that everything is okay. It’s really not. He can’t afford a new phone right now. Maybe he’ll ask someone for a loan. His savings account should remain untouched. There’s one problem he has to deal with right now though: how is he going to get up on time in the morning? He always used the alarm clock app. Resigned, he goes through his closet. There’s a shoe box in the corner where he keeps some souvenirs. Old-fashioned, sky blue alarm clock still works. He had it since childhood and then took it to the college dorm. It’s the same alarm clock that woke his parents every morning when he was little before they got a new one. This makes him think of Pa and that.. that is a little too much for today.

As he is getting ready to call it a night, he casts a look on the dirty dishes in the sink. He has become more sloppy recently. This isn’t something he would admit to anyone, not even Ma. Since it feels like no one is looking at him, he pretty much stopped caring about his wardrobe, and because no one ever visits him, his apartment went from tidy to a little bit messy to _a mess._ He is deeply ashamed of it. At the same time he doesn’t really care. Most days he feels less like a person and more like a swarm of particles, coming together only when necessary to perform the expected act in front of people. The minute their attention is gone, he is once again split into fragments. Sometimes it’s hard to remember in what order should they be put together to resemble Clark Kent.

He turns the lights off in the kitchen: it’s not like he won’t clean up tomorrow when he has more energy. He’s going to clean himself first. Hot water soothes his aching muscles – the shower cube could use some cleaning, too. Tomorrow is the day. This place will be immaculate once he is done with it. He is going to clean it so good. Everything will be put in the right place, not a dirty spot in sight. And then he will write, because he won’t have to think about how he has to clean up, so his mind will be free, inspired to work, ready to come up with beautiful words. He should start with the desk. Clean desk, clear mind. Yeah, tomorrow is the day. How fortunate that he didn’t have the money to pay for the wifi on time: no Internet means no distractions. Maybe he is just trying to rationalize to himself the necessity of paying only a handful of bills a month and leaving some of them for later. Sometimes it means next month, sometimes longer.

Must be nice to be someone like Bruce Wayne. To have zero knowledge about ordinary struggles and just… go. Every door opened, not a goal out of reach. To want without the “ifs” but plenty of “whens” instead. To think that this shallow, annoying bastard wastes all of this on girls and cars and parties, has all the means to make a change and decides to stay passive… Clark tries to relax, tucked under the covers that could use a wash but eh, no one will sleep beside him any time soon. Or ever. He turns from side to side, grits his teeth painfully when the thought of Bruce Wayne refuses to go away. _Billions of dollars._ Good God. It’s almost obscene that one person is in possession of such wealth when thousands need places like the Hut to overcome difficulties. When Kara desperately looks for funds, Vic can’t afford to go back to college, and Lois works her ass off to make any kind of profit. When people who run No Kill Shelter of Metropolis have to explain over and over again that they believe exterminating homeless animals for profit isn’t right. Strange world it is. Corrupt and unfair and Clark has absolutely no power to make a difference. His frustration is so deep that by the time he falls asleep, he has managed to convince himself that Bruce Wayne is the devil incarnated. Spoiled, bratty, arrogant, irritating, good-looking, broad-framed, dark haired… Handsome… Nice hands, too…

_Fuck._

Evil people can be attractive after all. Clark groans in the dark, frustrated with himself. He gets tissues and a bottle of Jergens from the nightstand, then pulls the sheets down along with pajama bottoms. He closes his eyes and tries to remember every little detail from today’s afternoon. Cocky smirk that’s annoying as hell but also really sexy. Strong chin. The subtle wisps of grey in his hair. Neck with a silver tie around it. What if Clark agreed to play the game and took him to the staff’s bathroom? They wouldn’t have much time but that would make it even hotter. Clark can taste his lips, his pulse, wonders if Bruce Wayne’s dick is a reason for his attitude, what’s hidden under the crisp white shirt… He sees Bruce on his knees, looking up with naked need in his eyes. Poor little rich boy definitely knows how to deep throat. He loves this, he can’t wait for Clark to come in his mouth, he sucks and licks and teases, begs for it… The perfectly manicured hand brings Clark closer to the edge… Bruce’s lips turn red, glisten in the dim light, wet with saliva and precum… Clark fucks his mouth, completely out of control… So good, feels good to make him shut up, make him gag on it… He pulls at his hair and jacks off, ruins this beautiful face… Drops of cum fall down his chin slowly… That would make a nice cover, wouldn’t it…

Clark actually whimpers out loud when orgasm hits, muscles trembling ever so slightly. Relaxed. Sated. The image of Bruce Wayne covered in his cum lingers under his eyelids for a couple of seconds, extending the state of bliss. Of all the celebrity fantasies he had in the past, this might be one of the most embarrassing ones. Clark cleans up the mess and rolls onto his side. He sleeps like a baby for the rest of the night.


	3. Chapter 3

On the following morning, the weather forecast announces that it’s going to rain. The air is hot and bloated with a promise of storm. Clark sweats profusely during his morning jog. He opens up the shop again and is surprised to see Barry waiting for him by the backdoor. “Hi there!”

“Hey, mister big deal!” Barry is… oddly excited. Something nice must’ve happened to him. “Thanks for arriving on time.” Clark looks for the keys. “Did you… pass an exam or something?”

“No man, no, exam is in a week, I’m good.” In spite of what he says, Barry buzzes with energy. Could it be that he is… Waiting for something, perhaps? “All right. Nice to see you in good mood so early in the morning.” They walk into the shop, welcomed by comforting silence. Even though they clean the place every evening, the smell of coffee lingers in the entire area. “You wanna take care of the bar or the tables first?” Clark asks, already changing clothes. “Man, you’re killing me!” Barry shouts with his hands in the air. “Your poker face is out of this world, I swear dude!”

“My poker face?...” 

“Yeah, look at you,” he says, ogling Clark from head to toes, “you’re the newest Internet sensation and you’re not even… I don’t know! I’d act differently if I were you, that’s all.”

“Internet sensation? What are you talking about?” Then, right in front of his eyes, Barry’s expression changes by 180 degrees. “Dude,” he says calmly, “you don’t know?”

“Know what?” Clark’s stomach drops to his knees. Whatever is coming at him, it can’t be good. Not good at all. “Have you logged on Twitter last night?...”

\---

Instead of helping Barry, Clark sits on the backdoors steps, phone in one hand, the other pressed hard to his head, and just scrolls. The #SayYesClark was trending for a very short amount of time but apparently that’s enough for the people of Metropolis to post thousands of tweets. It all started with a coverage of his encounter with Bruce Wayne. Turns out Clark was right: the girl sitting alone by the table was indeed taking pictures of them. What’s worse is that she added her commentary. She suggested there was a fairytale unfolding… or just a juicy gossip material. User Tamson4RlzYo immediately recognized Bruce Wayne when he walked into the shop.

**Tamson4RlzYo:**

**OMG look who’s in the coffee shop!!!**

Excited, she tweeted a few pictures of him studying the menu.

**Tamson4RlzYo**

**Slap my ass and call me names daddy!!!**

That could be it but no. Her attention shifted to Clark. She observed how their interaction went, documented it, and presented to the world with an addition of obnoxious hashtags.

**Tamson4RlzYo**

**Guys I think he’s hitting on him! #HeWasABillionaire #HeWasABarista #CanIMakeItAnymoreObvious”**

She wasn’t far from telling the truth to be honest: the pictures alone make it clear that Wayne, with his lopsided grin and the way he leans on the counter, is making advances towards Clark.

**Tamson4RlzYo**

**Damn they look soooo good together is2g #IShipIt**

Clark rejects him politely but there’s a grumpy look on his face.

**Tamson4RlzYo**

**Hot barista isn’t falling for it. His name is Clark btw. #SayYesClark**

One of the pictures perfectly captures the moment when Bruce leered at him.

**Tamson4RlzYo**

**OMG he wants it BAD guys omfg what a player #SayYesClark**

Another one is a close up of Clark’s arms and chest in the stupid, too tight shirt. The buttons are on the verge of popping off.

**Tamson4RlzYo**

**Hot dayummm he can brew my coffee any time he wants if u know what I mean!!! #SayYesClark**

The next one shows them staring at each other: Bruce smirking, Clark frowning.

**Tamson4RlzYo**

**JUST KISS ALREADY #SayYesClark**

Oddly enough, she didn’t include Vic and Barry in her story. The final picture shows Wayne walking away from the counter.

**Tamson4RlzYo**

**Nooo! You broke his heart you monster! Go fix it! #SayYesClark**

Then she tweeted back and forth with her friends, devastated that the love story didn’t go anywhere.

And that could be the end of it. It’s a little creepy, a whole lot or uncomfortable, but Clark could get over some teenage girl’s shenanigans. But the Internet could not, and it was just the beginning. Tea Time, one of the most popular gossip blogs in the city, caught a whiff of fresh blood in the water. After they retweeted the girl’s thread sometime in the evening, hashtag #SayYesClark spread like wildfire. It looks like some people actually got invested in the story, no matter how fabricated it was.

**AnnaGorillaManilla**

**It’s like modern day Cinderella!**

**CalumBawls**

**I’m not gay but I’d go gay for them**

**thiicc_patricc**

**Please God, make it happen. I need to believe in love.**

**kitsunechan**

**Have you ever seen so much perfection in one picture?**

**Crowderella**

**My dream threesome**

**MarissaJackson**

**Someone in Hollywood is writing the script as we speak.**

**hollyballoney**

**Wayne is a player don’t fall for him Clark!!**

**___roxanne___**

**What do you mean maybe Clark loves the players let him l i v e**

**SmithTheAgent**

**I want someone to look at me the way Bruce Wayne looks at that barista from Metropolis.**

**ShaniQqua**

**Ok but did he get his number because you don’t say anything about that… #sipstea**

**calilovess**

**Nah I think Bruce Wayne got rejected whaaaaaaaat**

**MykaleaParsons**

**Definitely not! You can see the barista tries to play it cool but then Wayne puts something in his pocket. I bet it’s a napkin with the guy’s number.**

**ilikecauliflowers**

**Can you imagine playing it cool in front of a guy who could buy an entire state if he felt like it I could never…**

**Blue_Honey**

**Playing hard to get is THE KEY get that coin Clark you’re doing amazing sweetie!**

**aaaaaaaallyson**

**Dear God, please let a billionaire show up in my store and hit on me, I’m a good person, I deserve it.**

Those tweets could be bearable, too. But no, it still wasn’t the end of the horrors because apparently the universe is desperate to make Clark’s life miserable. One of the pictures of him smiling while taking orders went viral. He even got the title of “ridiculously photogenic barista.” People made memes. Sleazy comments quadrupled when the photo showed up on Facebook. Another gossip blog sniffed a scoop, then a few others followed. Bruce Wayne generates clicks and playboy Bruce Wayne in action is the proverbial goldmine. Basically, now the entire Internet knows what Clark looks like and he can barely breathe. The realization that hundreds of people might be staring at his face at this very moment, talking about his appearance and what he does and how he is in real life… It’s like a grip tightening around his throat. “Hey, got something for you,” Barry’s voice sounds distant. He hands Clark a cup of fresh lemonade. Clark thanks him quietly: only know he realizes that his mouth is as dry as paper. “You okay?” Barry asks and sits by his side. “Not really.”

“They didn’t write anything bad about you, right? I mean, from what I saw people were kinda nice about the whole thing. Did somebody send you hate?”

“It’s not that.” Clark’s head hurts. The pain feels like a needle piercing through his skull and teeth. “They didn’t find my profiles, at least for now. Ever had one of those dreams where you show up at school naked?”

“Can’t say I have,” Barry answers. “Come on, it’s just the Internet. You know how it rolls. They probably forgot about you already.”

“I wish, but these gossip sites are… prying. Some of the stuff they’ve written is so vile, you wouldn’t believe…”

“Screw ‘em,” Barry interrupts. “They’re a bunch of sad, frustrated nobodies without lives of their own to care about. Maybe not today but by tomorrow morning they’ll find a new target.” 

“I have a bad feeling about this.” Clark takes a sip of his lemonade. “The worst part is that I was just doing my job. I had a bad day, yes, but everything was so ordinary. I wasn’t aware that someone was watching me. I mean, I know she’s just a girl… But I feel like I’m a showpiece at the zoo. I didn’t want this. I didn’t agree to any of this.” Clark wonders if this how celebrities feel – violated. Exposed. Afraid to do anything out of fear that someone, somewhere is recording their every move. On the other hand, his anxiety might be blowing this out of proportion. Barry is right: yesterday’s news are ancient news in the digital era. “Let’s open the shop.”

“You sure? I could handle it on my own if you need more time…”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Clark says. “It’s just Internet after all. I gotta say though, for the first time in ages I don’t need coffee to wake me up.” There are people already waiting outside the shop. Barry takes the register. It all goes smoothly until a group of girls asks Clark to take a picture with them. “Uuuh, sure,” he agrees because what else is there to say? At least they ask nicely instead of acting like creeps. Unfortunately, this seems to encourage other people in the line. “Are you the guy who ditched Bruce Wayne?” The man who asks looks like a typical college stoner. “I didn’t ditch him,” Clark says. “The story on Twitter was exaggerated.”

“So you gonna go out with him?”

“With all due respect, that is none of your business, sir.”

“You are!” The student looks happy as a clam. “No.” Clark puts the milk jug a little too harshly on the counter. “Nothing will happen.”

“Okay bro, whatever you say!” A short girl in the line overheard their conversation. “Hey, so you really don’t wanna date Bruce Wayne?” She asks when Clark prepares her honey blossom latte. “Miss, I’m just here to make coffee,” he says, determined to not give out anymore gossip material. “Is he like, ugly or something?” She continues, unfazed by his defensive attitude. “In the magazines he looks hot as fuck but I figured it’s photoshop. And like, he’s so rich that he probably had plastic surgeries anyway, right? Rich people always look good. Do you think he wears makeup too?”

“No, he’s a very handsome man,” Clark says and regrets it immediately, his face turning paper white. He has fallen into a trap. “So you do like him!”

“Here’s your coffee, miss. Have a good day.” He pretends he didn’t hear what she said and moves on to another order. Skinny caramel latte with double whipped cream. Figures – the customer is a gorgeous, well-dressed woman. Maybe a little too plastic for his tastes. “Do you have Bruce Wayne’s number?” The woman asks when Clark makes accidental eye contact. “No I don’t, ma’am.” He replies with a smile even though he would love to break something right now. “Email? Skype? Anything?” She persists. “Even if I did ma’am, I don’t think he’d appreciate me sharing that information.”

“He’d be happy if I had it, sweetie,” she retorts, looking at him through squinted eyes. “I thought you didn’t want to date him?”

“I have no intention to do so but that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t have his number.”

“Yeah, right.” She doesn’t believe him one bit. “Smart boy. I’d keep that sugar to myself, too.”

“What? No wait, I don’t…”

“Three large frappuccinos, one skinny, two regular, and flat white to go!” Barry says louder than usual which means that the rush hour is starting to get on his nerves. Billionaire dates or not, they are on the same team. Still, it’s Clark who has to suffer through raunchy comments and not so subtle glance overs. That feeling of being watched makes his skin crawl. Of course customers always look at him…but not like that. Never like that. At one point he decides that it’s actually better when people just ask him about the incident directly. Some of them act like he isn’t there or he can’t hear them talking.

“So it’s him? You’re sure? He looked different in the photo…”

“Damn, that’s a great ass.”

“Wait ‘til you see his front!”

“Bruce Wayne wanted to tap that, this means the man is quality!”

“Think he works here because of his failed modeling career?”

Clark grinds his teeth harder with every sound of a camera going off behind his back. There is always a phone pointed at him, so he smiles, and smiles some more. “Hey Clark, could you take off your glasses?” A complete stranger asks like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Sorry, I need them to see.” It doesn’t stop at that, oh no. Throughout the morning rush people either ask Clark for a picture or for details on his date with the billionaire. Barry, bless his heart, tries as best as he can to redirect the attention of the crowd to himself with jokes and overly friendly behavior. It doesn’t work in the long run. When they check their phones after two hours, the Typewriter notifications on social media are off the roofs. “Well, I guess Lois will be happy,” Clark remarks bitterly. “Nothing like a free promotion.”

“You should totally ask for a raise though,” Barry says, reading the latest tweets. “Holy shit dude, the ladies love you. I’m getting jealous.”

“Bro…” Clark rolls his eyes. “You could totally get any date you want now! I mean, just listen to this: I’d let him tie me to the bedpost and…”

“That’s enough,” those comments really start to bother him. “Uh oh…” Barry whispers suddenly. “What?” Clark shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t because it invites all kinds of catastrophes to destroy his life. This time is no different: Barry looks at him with a weird kind of compassion. “There’s, uh… an article. They have your full name.”

\---

Lois made sure that the décor of her office, just like the rest of the Typewriter, was homely and soothing. Earth colors, warm tones, soft textures. Fresh flowers in a vase and cute knickknacks. Picture of her and Diana on their trip to Greece. A space were one can find some peace and quiet to come up with a solution to their problems. Clark hopes it will make him feel better eventually. Right now he lies in fetal position on the carpet, waiting for Lois to finish reading the latest post on Shirley Speaks – one of the biggest gossip blogs not only in Metropolis, but on the entire east coast.

Playboy no more: Bruce Wayne’s new relationship might be the end game

_We’ve all grown accustomed to the idea of Bruce Wayne, the Untamed Bachelor. He is THAT guy: different girl every week (or boy for that matter), each one more beautiful than the other. Models, actors, musicians, artists, socialites – everyone wants a piece of Brucie. Check out the list of people he dated. Guy has a lust for life and honestly, who can blame him? I’ve heard there’s a pool going on in the higher class society of Gotham that Wayne will remain unmarried until he’s 50. I’m gonna make a guess that the stakes are about to go up. _

_By now you’ve probably seen the thread on Twitter where Brucie hits on a barista at the Typewriter coffee shop in Metropolis. Following the #SayYesClark and #RidiculouslyPhotogenicBarista last night was pretty fun. People had a good laugh about Brucie being rejected by an insanely good looking guy (we’ll get back to him in a minute). _

_But that’s not all of it. If his history proves anything, it’s that he’s persistent. He’s also a good friend of Diana Prince, partner of Lois Lane, reporter turned entrepreneur who runs – you guessed it – the Typewriter coffee shop. Brucie visited her office after getting his coffee that afternoon. Looks like a perfect opportunity to fish some information about a hot barista working for her, no? _

_In fact, photos taken later that day show the Ridiculously Photogenic Barista riding on a bike to a hotel where Brucie was staying (courtesy of anonymous gossiper). No one can escape the old money charm. As for Brucie, he was nowhere to be seen for the rest of the night. Bruce Wayne! Not partying in Metropolis! Did the hell freeze over? Hmmm… Maybe he was just busy courting his date? _

_Now, why do I make such a big deal out of Brucie’s new boy toy? This is where things get interesting: the barista, Clark Kent (33), has more to him than just good looks (I mean, look at him – his existence is like a slap to the cheek for us mere mortals around the world). When he isn’t busy serving coffee (reliable caffeine junkies told me that he makes the best frappuccinos in Metropolis), he’s a freelance journalist. His profile says he’s from Smallville, Kansas and that he graduated from the University of Metropolis. He writes mostly about social issues. You know, small stories that usually don’t get anyone’s attention. His blog is a consistent coverage of stuff most of us probably finds boring or uncomfortable. On top of that, he also volunteers at the Hut Foundation For People in Need, non-profit initiative providing legal, financial, and educational aid for the people living in the poor areas of Metropolis. Clark is listed on their page as an office assistant but he also helps preschool children with their reading and writing skills. He’s also associated with the No Kill Shelter of Metropolis. According to the people working there, he likes to take the dogs out for long walks. _

_Very handsome, educated, country, young but not too young, heart of gold, dog lover, knows how to make good coffee. _

_Love him yet? I know I do. That’s why I think he’s going to be a game changer. This isn’t Brucie’s flavor of the week. This is Bruce Wayne meeting someone with real substance. Mark my words: we’re gonna hear a lot about Clark Kent in the upcoming months._

Lois doesn’t show any emotion as she sips her cappuccino. It’s only when Clark lets out a dying whale noise that she acknowledges his pain by saying: “They did write the name correctly.”

“That’s even worse,” Clark whines from the floor. “It’s the only truthful thing in this piece of garbage.” He will never call that particular blog entry “an article.” It constructs a false narrative around sparse evidence – tells a lie to be precise. Lies on the Internet are very useful since they serve the Almighty Page Views. “I was just passing by that hotel, I didn’t even know… I can’t believe my life got used for clicks.” He takes off the glasses and rubs at his face, sad and frustrated. “Clark,” Lois says in a serious tone, “I’m going to be a bitch right now but you have to listen to me.”

“What do you mean?” Her statement made him get up from the floor. Lois has her reporter facade on: it’s in the way she holds herself, the way her eyes shine with inner light. That is Lois he has met years ago and the one he fell for. “I understand you’re feeling violated. You have every right to feel that way. But you can use this situation to your own profit.”

“Just like the starlets hanging on his arms to get press?” Clark can’t believe he heard her saying that. “Hell no.”

“How’s the Hut doing these days?” She goes straight to the point. “Kara has the money to build the canteen she was talking about?”

“Well, uh, no…”

“And how’s your blog? I think you should check the stats if you haven’t done it yet.” He hadn’t, overpowered by the sudden buzz he didn’t want nor look for. Lois turns her laptop around so he can have a look. Clark logs in and… “Oh my God,” his voice is embarrassingly squeaky.

“Exactly.” Lois says. “You have plenty of new followers on Twitter, too. You didn’t ask for the five minutes of fame, I know, but now you have it. You can use it any way you please.”

“I…” Clark feels like a cat got his tongue. Thoughts are running through his head at alarming speed. He takes a quick look at the comments under his articles: there are _dozens._ People _read_ them. Not only that, they felt invested enough to leave a reply. His email box is packed. He managed to make a connection with strangers through his writing – everything he has ever wanted. All because of a billionaire walking into his coffee shop. Which reminds him about one thing… “Have you two talked about me?” Clark asks harshly. “No,” she denies, “I’m as shocked as you are. Bruce didn’t say anything. We had a chit-chat about running a business and Diana’s projects. I thought he dropped by just to be nice.” 

“Nice? That doesn’t seem to fit him at all.”

“He’s not that bad. I don’t know him very well but Diana always says there’s more to him than meets the eye. I can assure you Bruce won’t play the game, by the way.”

“What game?” 

“The one they started. He’ll deny everything. He won’t talk about you. You know, no winks to the press. Most likely he’ll pretend he doesn’t remember you at all.”

“What makes you so sure?” Her smile is surprisingly icy. “You’re too low profile for him, Smallville. He has no business being connected to you. Those starlets hanging off his arms you mentioned earlier? Bruce profits from being seen with them, too. That fairytale Shirley penned sure sounds nice but it doesn’t sell anything except… Well, you.”

“You are…” Clark isn’t sure what to say. “…devious?”

“Business is business,” she says with a touch of acidity in her tone. “Would you mind terribly if I took your picture?”

\---

Clark insisted for Victor and Barry to appear in the picture as well – he was tired of the attention being focused solely on him. He still stands in the center, smiling shyly while the other two present their wide, happy grins. It was posted all over the Typewriter’s social media and on Clark’s Twitter account. They’ve rewritten the caption about twenty times before agreeing on the final version:

**TheTypewriter**

**Hi! 20% of this week’s earnings goes to @TheHutFoundation so they can buy school supplies for kids in need. What’s your order?**

The question seemed unnecessary to Clark, but Lois insisted. (“That’s what lifestyle bloggers do. People love that crap.”) It took only an hour for the photo to go viral. So far the outcome is overwhelmingly positive. When Clark’s shift is about to be over, the shop is full of people. Naturally, there are some unwanted comments (My order? A nice full cup of DAT ASS) and some people asking him about Bruce (Is it true 7 virgins bathe him in rose water every night???) but the majority remains sweet and supportive. “This is the best day ever,” Barry brings out a new tip jar because their usual one is overflowing. It’s not even noon yet. “What are you gonna do with your newfound wealth, guys?”

“Get a new phone probably.” Lois was kind enough to borrow Clark a spare she keeps in her desk but he already hates it. “Put it in my savings account,” Vic says sternly. Barry looks at him, mildly surprised. “Oh. Really?”

“Nah, just fucking with ya. I’m gonna blow it all in one evening.”

“Now that’s what I wanted to hear! Gentlemen, I think we should plan something epic for Friday night.”

“Yeah, yeah. Work first. Hi, thanks for choosing the…” Clark turns to the customer who looks like a biker gang member. “Uh. Typewriter.”

“Flat white,” the biker says. “In a mug.”

“Right. Yeah. One flat white, coming right up!” Clark gets his grip, not without some hesitation. The guy looks really intimidating. He pays for the coffee, puts one dollar in the tip jar and moves to sit in the far corner of the shop. “Do you think he killed someone?” Barry whispers once he’s sure the biker can’t hear them. “No! Ever heard of the phrase don’t judge a book by its cover?”

“Man, you wouldn’t last five seconds in Gotham,” Vic sends him a disapproving look. “Good thing that I’ll never go there,” Clark snaps.

“But what if you’re gonna have a date?”

“Why would I go for a date to…” Clark sighs. “Guys. I thought I made it clear. This is all just a giant misunderstanding, okay? There’s no one, I repeat, no one in Gotham that I’d go on a date with. I’m not dating anyone.” They still don’t look convinced. “What?!”

“Not to put any pressure on you but mister Wayne sure did look interested.” Vic says sheepishly. “I mean, he swings both ways, you swing both ways… Why won’t you give the guy a chance?”

“Vic, not you too…”

“Look, it’s not about the hashtag, all right? I was here, bro, and he did want to take you out. I’m the witness. I’m just saying, maybe you’re the one who’s judging a book by the cover?”

“I just want this nonsense to be over,” Clark shuts the dishwasher with a little too much force. “Okay, don’t get mad,” Vic apologizes. “I’m not mad. I’m just…”

“Hey, could you take a selfie with us?” The girl by the counter asks politely. “Go for it big guy, I’ll take it from here,” Mera walks out from the backroom and takes his place behind the counter. “By the way, Radio M is coming over. I’ll need you for a little longer.”

“What? Why?”

“They’re going to talk about our charity event on the afternoon news. I bet they’ll want to have a word with you.” Everything is happening so fast Clark can’t keep up. His usual responsibilities are peppered with requests for pictures and sometimes sleazy advances. “I have no idea what to say to them,” he confesses to Lois when people from the radio show up. Frankly, he feels a little dizzy. “Two magic words, Clark: no comment. Use them whenever you like. And be yourself.”

“I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“Come on, you got this! You’re funny, polite, cute, well-read, and you like to smile a lot. They’re going to eat you up like a sundae on a hot summer afternoon.”

“Oh great, I’m totally not panicking right now.” A compliment from Lois does feel nice to him though. “Loosen up a bit. You’re a journalist too, remember?”

“Yeah. The whole point was to be on the other side of the microphone, asking questions.”

“Smile and no comment, Clark.” Lois gives him a pointed look, then walks out to greet the reporters like the boss she is. They move to her office where it’s more peaceful. “So, the man of the hour!” The radio host oozes the chaotic energy of a failed firecracker show.

Clark hates everything.

\---

He has a lot of missed calls from Kara. “So,” for the first time ever she doesn’t bother with pleasantries, “were you planning to tell me sometime about your filthy rich boyfriend?”

“It’s not real, Kara,” he says calmly. “The whole story is a hoax but I don’t know how to prove it.”

“What do you mean a hoax?” She sounds genuinely upset. “I have eyes! Those pictures say everything!”

“Please believe me.” Clark sighs. “I didn’t give him my number, I didn’t meet him at the hotel, I’ve done nothing. Matter of fact, I don’t want anything to do with him. It’s all an exaggeration and a hell lot of lies.”

“I don’t get it. Why would anyone tell lies about you on the Internet?”

“Because it’s the Internet,” he says, whining a bit. “People love rumors. They see what they want to see. My denial won’t change a thing. All I can do is kind of… run with it, I guess, and try to make the best out of the situation. It’ll stop eventually.”

“That’s honestly so, so scary. Like, I don’t know what I’d do if my face was all over the Internet. Are you all right?” _Not really._ In fact, he’s still shaking, but no one seems to notice how badly this whole thing has affected him. “I’m fine. Lois came up with the picture. The idea of donating some of this week’s income is all on her by the way. Said to use the attention for good. Clearly she’s handling the situation better than I am,” _and thank God for that, for I would go insane otherwise._ “So, yeah, expect some boost in the next couple of days. At least that’s what I’m hoping for.”

“And you’re doing all of that to help me?” Kara is silent for a moment. “Oh my God, Clark, I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Wait until we see some real money from the donations. I’m still not sure if it’s gonna work.”

“Actually, I wanted to tell you that our website crashed this morning,” she laughs. “Crashed because so many people viewed it at once! Can you believe that?!”

“That’s great! Although that means we could use a better server. But you know what? It’ll be hard for me to be surprised with anything after today.”

“Yeah, you’ve seen it all. Internet fame is going to your head already?”

“Oh, knock it off.”

“I’m just joking,” she chuckles. “Besides, we live in the two thousands. The aughties, if you will. The Internet fame is the only fame.”

“I think I’m not the kind of guy who should get famous,” he confesses. “Don’t worry. Like you’ve said, it’ll end sooner rather than later… Shoot, I have a second call.”

“Go for it. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Bye!” Clark hangs up and gets on his bike. He could swear there’s a man with a camera hiding behind the dumpster but the space is empty when he checks it. He has goosebumps. Paranoia isn’t something he has ever accustomed with being famous, yet here he is. Spending the rest of the day tucked safely in his apartment sounds like the most enticing idea he had in years. It’s a cowardly move, if a necessary one: he just needs to be alone. The phone buzzes after just a few minutes of his usual ride back home. Puzzled, he stops immediately to answer a call from Kara. “Clark,” she sounds breathless, “we just received one hundred thousand dollars.”

\---

It’s close to midnight when the phone buzzes. “Hey,” Lois sounds like she’s in a good mood. “Just calling to check how you’re doing.”

“Funny, Vic and Barry did the same about an hour ago.” Clark stuffs his face with takeout food while Bruce Wayne probably eats lobster on gold flakes with a side of caviar and sacrificial blood. “Because we’re all worried about you, that’s why. You don’t like to admit it but you’re sensitive.”

“I’m okay now. Just can’t wait when this is all over so I can be a nobody again.”

“Hang in there, Smallville. The moment will come soon. Paps will caught Bruce with a pretty girl and she’ll steal the spotlight.”

“Praying to God she’s on her way,” he chuckles quietly. “It’s not the only reason why I’m calling though,” her voice doesn’t falter. “Why, did something happen?”

“I did it again.”

“Did what?”

“Bought something online because I was sad.”

“It’s fine, Lo. Don’t beat yourself over that,” he says reassuringly. He gets a sense of relief: for a second he was afraid this was about something serious. “However… please tell me you haven’t spent three thousand dollars on a scarf again.”

“It was Missoni and to this day I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” she cries out loud. “But I returned it, you know that! Anyway, I bought a lipstick.”

“Huh. That’s nothing outrageous, right? You can indulge a little from time to time…”

“It was ninety dollars.” Clark can almost hear his brain crashing and shutting down immediately. “Lois. Lois Lane.”

“I know,” she whines, “but it’s such a pretty shade! It’s like the color of my lips but better. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”

“Why on Earth would you need a lipstick that looks exactly like your lips? I thought the purpose was to change the lip color.”

“But I can match this one with a more dramatic eye makeup, of course.”

“I… I give up,” he resigns because it’s definitely not his area of expertise. “Are you going to return it?”

“I don’t want to,” she says. “I’m really looking forward to wearing it, you know. I think Diana will like it too.”

“Well then, don’t feel guilty. You work hard and you’ve got a lot on your head right now. You deserve nice things.”

“Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, smiling gently. “How are you anyway?”

“Worried.” Clark waits for her to elaborate. “The baby isn’t moving. I should feel something by now. Nothing. Not a tiniest kick. I’m afraid something’s wrong.”

“I’m sure everything’s okay. You’re just too much of a perfectionist.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Lois sighs. “I just hope I’ll be able to work for the rest of the pregnancy. I’ll go nuts if I’m gonna have to lay in bed all day.”

“Whatever happens, brooding won’t change anything. Wait until Diana comes back and you go to the doctor’s. Now all you can do is try to relax.”

“I guess so. Anyway, I don’t wanna whine any longer. How’s Kara? Did she like our little promo?”

“She’s over the moon,” Clark says, thinking about how happy her eyes looked like when he visited the Hut earlier today. “Someone donated one hundred thousand dollars, can you believe that?”

“You’re kidding me!”

“Nope, I’m not. Anonymous donor. Kara will be able to fund the Hut for the rest of the year and start the cantine project.”

“It was Bruce,” Lois says out of the blue. “It had to be him.”

“What?” Clark is confused. “Why would you say that? He’s not the only rich guy around.”

“Oh come on, his team monitors every mention of his name on the Internet. I’m sure he’s aware of what we did.”

“So? This still doesn’t prove he has anything to do with it.”

“I don’t know. I just feel like you have the wrong picture. He’s really not that bad as you seem to think.” Clark greets his teeth. Of course, because he is handsome, famous, and rich. Does he flirt too much? Probably, but that only adds to the charm, doesn’t it? People like that can get away with anything. “I don’t wanna talk about him.”

“Are you mad at him?” Lois isn’t known for dropping the subject when it gets uncomfortable. “No…” Clark looks at the cracks on his ceiling. It could benefit from some renovation. Just like the rest of the apartment. “Yes. I was going on about my day and then… boom. Everyone is looking at me, talking about me. Today at the shop… I know you were right about making profit out of this whole situation but all I wanted was to run away. All of those people… Jesus Christ, I bet they were all thinking about me and him in that hotel… I felt like a retired porn star who got recognized at a new job.”

“My God, Clark, why did you agree?!” Her voice sounds broken. “If I knew how it’d make you feel, I’d never suggest anything like that!”

“It’s okay Lo, it’s fine,” he panics. The last thing he wants is to upset her. “I’m fine. Being alone at my place helped a lot. I’m processing everything that happened over the last two days, you know. And there’s quite a lot to process.”

“Take the day off tomorrow, I’ll pay you regardless,” she offers. “By Thursday people will get a little bored.”

“I’m good, really.”

“Use that time to write,” Lois insists. “I saw what’s going on your blog. It’s your time to shine. Keep their interests.”

“Lois Lane, giving advice on digital journalism.”

“I hate the game, not the players. Well, not all of them.”

“You see, that’s kinda another thing that bothers me,” he already said a lot, might as well spit everything out. “People pay attention to my writing because… Because they think I’m hot or whatever. Because a rich guy hit on me publicly. It has nothing to do with my writing. I didn’t imagine my breakthrough to go like that. I wanted to be heard because I’m… good, and I speak about things that matter to me. Things that should matter to others.” He flops on the sofa after his little rant, suddenly exhausted. “Am I a whiny brat?”

“No. But you need to remember that every career has more than one breakthrough. This isn’t the ideal, I get it, but that’s what you’ve got. Don’t let a chance slip through your fingers because you thought it would be different.”

“I hate it when you’re right.”

“Sometimes you only get one chance, Smallville. A year from now this mess won’t matter but your writing will. Don’t fuck it up.”

“You’re so not putting any pressure on me or anything, thanks for that.”

“Make pressure your bitch.”

“Think of your child, Lo! Be a good role model!”

“He or she doesn’t have ears yet. I think. I didn’t read that book Diana gave me.”

“Why not?”

“Because… I don’t know. I was tired. Nobody reads books in this day and age.”

“I do.”

“Really? What was the last book you’ve read?”

“…I’d love to read more, actually.”

“Everyone says that,” she snorts. “Thanks for talking, Clark. I think the urge to shop just left my body.”

“My pleasure. You helped me, too.”

“Enough to make you write something tomorrow?” Clark gets tense. He doesn’t like lying to her. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll give it a go.”

“You can do this, Smallville. It’s your day off, remember.”

“I know, I know.” It’s quite obvious, really: he has done it before. There’s nothing stopping him from doing it again, this time even better than before. It’s just that he’d rather not. “Don’t think about Wayne.” Clark inhales sharply. “Why did you say that? I don’t think about him at all.”

“I meant the whole mess. It’ll pass. Everything will be back to normal sooner than you think.”

“Yeah, I hope so.” They say their goodbyes and hang up. Clark puts on some peppy music for workout. Movement reduces tension. He goes through a simple routine he has learned in high school and doesn’t stop until there’s sweat on his forehead. By the time he’s done, he feels a bit more at peace.

Shower water is really hot, too hot for most people probably, but that’s how he likes it. His mind, totally against his will and everything Lois has said, goes back to the overwhelming amount of Bruce Wayne’s pictures he has seen today. Some were serious takes from business meetings, others – a study on varying degrees of dishevelment. There were pictures of his conquests, too. One of the women caught his eye because she showed up by Bruce’s side more often than others. Her name was Selina. Apparently, she was one of the people known for being known. She had beautiful green eyes and, what most tabloids called it, the best rack in Gotham. From what Clark has gathered (he wasn’t proud of this research but he just couldn’t stop himself), they were on and off for years until she had a baby not that long ago. Little Helena was speculated to be Bruce’s daughter but they both used the no comment route.

It would suit that bastard to abandon his own child. Selfish jerk. Someone should teach him a lesson. Clark could do it. Get that motherfucker of his high horse. Strip him down from his nice clothes and make him beg for… for… “God dammit,” Clark whispers when he realizes his dick is rock hard. He strokes himself and thinks about all of the attractive people on Bruce’s arms but no matter how hard he tries to fight it, Bruce becomes the main focus of the fantasy. This time they’re in a limousine. They kiss and undress each other even though they’re on a way to some event but they don’t care, they need to fuck right here, right now, touch each other until they’re ready and suddenly Clark comes all over his bathroom tiles. He usually isn’t that quick.

When he lies in his bed later that night, he feels hopeful about tomorrow. A full-paid day off. What a blessing. He’s gonna get up early as usual, make breakfast, and finally read all of the comments that people have left on his blog because he paid the bills with his share of today’s tips. It felt good. Maybe Lois is right about squeezing the five minutes of fame he has been given. More like five seconds. Next week no one will remember about it, and he’ll definitely stop having sexual fantasies about a tall, dark and handsome citizen of Gotham. But the boost his writing gets… That’s something he can’t let go.


	4. Chapter 4

Clark wakes up to a message from Barry that reads _enjoy ur day off bro we will take care of everything._ At first he thinks it’s sarcasm. He changes his mind after he splashes some cold water on his face and really wakes up. Nah. Not Barry. He’s probably just happy about all the tips he is gonna score. Clark could use the money but he’s going to write all day instead. That’s worth more than a few dollars.

There’s usually not enough time to prepare nice breakfast in the morning. Clark makes some waffles, egg toasts, bacon, tomatoes, and even throws some fruits and oat flakes into the blender to have a smoothie. He feels oddly accomplished with full stomach. Funny how cooking can uplift one’s spirit so easily. He thinks about writing but decides to visit the shelter first. Usually he takes the early shift and has the afternoon off. It’d be a nice change of pace to take one of the dogs for a walk before noon. He has the whole day after all. There’s no rush to deal with the comments and everything else the Internet decides to throw at him today.

As he walks into the shelter, Nigel from the reception desk gives him a look that’s hard to read. “You’ve got us some press, my friend,” he says, “I haven’t seen this many beautiful women since my time in the navy.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Clark wishes he could just walk out but it’d be really rude and he can’t come up with an excuse on the spot. “Sorry?” Nigel fixes his glasses. “I should present you with a nice bottle of bourbon. People have been showering us with money since yesterday.”

“What… really?”

“Hell yeah really. We even received an anonymous donation of one thousand grand.”

“That’s awesome!” Exactly the same amount the Hut received yesterday. Clark keeps that information to himself. “Adoption requests have doubled by the way. There are some doggies left if you want to take them for a walk. But we’re out of cats. Well, except one.”

“Which one?”

“Little Miss Hissy of course. We need a real cat lover to give her a chance.” Clark notices that the shelter is way more quiet than usual. He picks out Lyra – adult golden retriever that still acts like a puppy. The park looks lovely in the springtime. It hasn’t gone into the full bloom yet but the warm air slowly kisses it back to life. The temperatures have been rising steadily over the past few days. It makes Clark think of the farm and how Spring meant the beginning of very hard work his father loved so much. He feels guilty that Ma has to deal with it all alone. Spring air got Lyra going: she runs around until she’s out of breath. At first Clark has some troubles with keeping her in check. Fortunately, she has been trained well. God only knows what made the people she loved abandon her like that. Someone takes a picture of him, or at least Clark thinks that they did – he could swear he heard the specific clicking noise. Two girls on a bench have their phones out but it looks like they’re just talking. _I’m getting paranoid,_ Clark thinks.

When he gets back to the shelter, he drops by the cat ward. All of the cages are empty which makes him smile. There’s only one left shut. Miss Hissy, faithful to her name, hisses at him when he gets in her line of vision. She’s curled in the back, ears flat, fur on the entire body raised. “You just wanna be left alone, right? I get it.” The cat reacts with a meow that sounds a whole lot like a warning.

Barry sends Clark a video from work: him and Vic are in the backroom with sunglasses on, throwing money at themselves. They’re clearly pleased with how the day has been going so far_. Just don’t spend it all on alcohol and drugs,_ Clark replies. Barry doesn’t disappoint: _duh we r ADULTS we r going to spend it on hot cheetos and k-pop merch._

It’s time to write. Clark creates a playlist of his favorite music, puts on the comfiest pair of boxers and a worn out t-shirt from his college days, brews coffee in a French press and sits down in front of his laptop, ready to pick up the story of unemployed veterans right where he left, determined to finish it in one sitting.

He does nothing for about an hour – just scrolls through some random pages, careful to avoid any information about himself. Somehow the thought of going to his blog page fills him with dread. He should probably just get something to eat. A muffin would be nice. He briefly thinks of going to the store but store bought muffins are garbage compared to the real deal at Finney’s. The weather is lovely. It would be a shame to spend all of his free time trapped between four walls. Being around people could help him focus. Yeah, it’s a great idea to pack up his laptop and go to the Finney’s cafe.

The place is old-fashioned, just like the recipes the owners use for their baked goods which means everything is delicious. Clark can’t make up his mind: would he like a marzipan croissant? A blueberry muffin? Chocolate éclair? Pistachio cookie? Cinnamon bun? Rosé mousse on sponge cake? Finally he goes for the muffin – it’s what he came for after all. He brings it to the table by the window along with a steaming cup of flat white. He opens up his laptop, connects to the wifi and freezes when his phone rings. “Hi,” Lois says on the other side of the line, “just wanted to check if you’re doing okay.”

“Thanks, I’m good.”

“You’re sure? You seemed pretty shaken up yesterday.”

“I’m _fine,_ Lo. Don’t worry. Matter of fact, I’m about to write something. Go on, be proud.”

“That’s great! What is it gonna be about?”

“Well, first I need to reply to the comments I got since the stupid hashtag went viral.”

“Don’t waste too much time on that. And remember, done is better than perfect.” It was one of her favorite sayings. She firmly believes that working too long on a story to make it perfect brings the opposite effect. “Don’t kill the spark before it shines.”

“Duly noted. What about you? How are you doing?”

“Bad. I have to go shopping. I can’t fit into any of my skirts anymore.”

“Wait until Diana comes back, I’m sure she’d like to go with you.”

“But I have to get something for Saturday. I can’t walk around in a dress that doesn’t fit.”

“You could wear a jacket?”

“Jackets aren’t suitable for parties like this one.”

“Oh boy. Should I rent a tuxedo?”

“Don’t be silly. Wear a nice shirt and some pants that are not jeans and you’ll be fine.” Clark gets caught off guard. He isn’t sure if he has anything but jeans in his modest closet. Looks like he has to go shopping as well. “Anyway, I’ll leave to your artistry. Make those hard, farm raised fingertips work their magic.”

“And goodbye to you, Lo.” He hangs up and eats the muffin thoughtfully. He doesn’t remember when was the last time he ate something this good. It tastes like heaven and smells like the best childhood memories. The sun shines through huge windows. People on the street pass by and pay him no mind, too busy with their own lives. It’s been a while since Clark had the time to do some people watching. He always wanted to write a contemporary novel. All he needed was a good protagonist. He believed that he or she was there, somewhere in the world, among the sea of faces saw every day. It was part of the reason why he agreed to work at the Typewriter; like Kara has said, it’s the perfect job to meet new people.

Coffee goes great with the muffin and before he knows it, Clark is done with the treats. It’s almost one o’clock. Shopping malls are usually packed in the late afternoon when the nine to five crowd is on its way home. If Clark goes there now, he can buy some pants in peace and maybe even get some lunch. “Hey, sorry,” a girl with braces approaches him shyly, “are you, you know, the barista from the meme?” He smiles because can’t say no. However, it makes him feel like he is never going to visit Finney’s again.

\---

It’s close to four in the afternoon when he gets back to his apartment with a shopping bag and some Chinese takeout. His plans to eat at the mall where demolished by this awful feeling of being watched and photographed. He really couldn’t tell if he was exaggerating or not. What started it all was a discount he got at the store. “Come visit more often,” the salesman said and winked at him. He didn’t ask for a picture, thank God, but it made Clark want to crawl under the bed.

Clark changes his clothes and eats while watching a football game between Metropolis and Gotham; the latter team is losing. He chuckles. Good on them, the bastards. Except Vic. Vic is all right. But Bruce Wayne and the rest of the city can go to hell. As if someone heard his thoughts, a huge logo of Wayne Industries suddenly pops up on the screen – sponsor of the Gotham’s team. Now Clark laughs wholeheartedly. That’ll teach mister Wayne a lesson. Stupid jerk. Overly confident buffoon. Hopefully this failure stings him real bad. Asshole.

He gets rid of the takeout boxes and realizes the kitchen could use some cleaning. There’s never good time to do that so he decides to make the place a little bit more presentable. He starts with the dreadful sink full of dirty dishes, fills up three garbage bags, scrapes the toilet, shower stall and the bathroom mirror, and then vacuums and mops the entire apartment. By the time he’s finished, it’s already dark outside. That’s good though: now he can focus on writing without being distracted by the filth in his living area. Once again, he sits down in front of the computer screen, goes straight to his blog with a newfound sense of purpose, and freezes. He is scared of clicking on the comments section. Absolutely mortified. He has no idea how he’s going to deal with online hate. When no one read his articles at least he could feel safe. Now he feels exposed to the predators, just like he felt when the dumb fucking hashtag happened. He walks around in circles for a little bit. What makes him go back to the laptop is the simple thought of _just fucking do it. _

Turns out the comments aren’t that bad. They’re pretty encouraging to be honest. Among a few trolls and a significant number of indecent proposals, there are people who have some pretty good points and are able to get them across in proper English. Clark gets excited at the prospect of replying to them. _Why was I so afraid? _

And then, just as he starts to think everything turned out better than expected, he reads a comment under the Sweetwater case breakdown from years ago. The town’s mayor was accused of taking bribes from his entire office. Not huge amounts of money, just around five to ten percent of every paycheck. What made the story really outrageous is that the employees were basically paying him for having a job. It happened in the middle of the national financial crisis. People were really scared that they weren’t going to have the means to care for their families. Mayor pried on their fear, firing voices of protest left and right, so they kept their mouths shut until one of the secretaries couldn’t take it anymore. With the help of one of the assistants who later denied his involvement, she recorded her conversation with the mayor about her payments. The entire state was shocked when the man got away with everything. Despite the damning evidence, the jury found him not guilty.

From Clark’s point of view, this failure of court law was due to the fact that the jury was made of Sweetwater citizens: it’s a small town and people’s livelihoods are tightly connected to one another. Have it been made out of people who lived outside of Sweetwater, the jury would’ve been more objective than the friends of the mayor. It goes without saying that the secretary who decided to speak out paid a high price for her bravery. Most people in the jury weren’t ready to back her up. She had to leave her hometown with a sense of betrayal from people she has known her whole life. The commentator that caught Clark’s attention had a different opinion on the subject:

_This was a true test for the justice system. If the jury had concluded that the mayor was guilty, it would show that Justice is indeed blind. If we agree that personal reasons and prejudices have more power than the rules of the law, there’s no hope for better future. We can’t import juries from different cities or even different states every time we think there are connections involved. We have to teach the citizens that jury duty is a practice of selfless thinking. Otherwise corruption will never get erased from our cities. _

The handle is short and simple – Bat. No picture, no email address, no social media accounts attached to the comment. Clark wonders if its _bat_ as in the flying animal or the baseball item. Those thoughts get forgotten quickly when he realizes that the Bat has left plenty of other comments, and this one should be considered as one of the nicest.

To the poor state of resocialization division in Kansas, the Bat had this to say:

_Resocialization is a joke. The more criminals come back to prison, the more money the state makes of off them. Specialists (they don’t even deserve that name) are poorly prepared for their jobs as an effect of targeted negligence in this field of education. They don’t have the knowledge nor the tools to make a change for the imprisoned. People at the top want them to be this way and the resocialization officers do nothing to improve their skill set. They’re content with their ineptness. Without their refusal to do a poor job day after day, prisoners won’t ever get to back to society. As it is, the position of resocializator is a magnet for those who are lazy, narrow-minded, and sometimes even cruel. _

Professor of the Metropolis University mentioned in a piece about changes in the English department Clark has written in hopes of an easy sell wasn’t Bat’s favorite person:

_Professor Dalgliesh has spent his entire career at the Metropolis University simply because he always looked the other way when bribery was happening right in front of his nose. That’s the real reason why he left Oxford. I should say he got fired but no one has the balls to admit it. Shame. _

Clark felt offended on behalf of the professor whom he liked a lot during his time at the university. He didn’t dwell on that but jump onto the next comment instead:

_The ‘Metropolis Silicone Valley’ is just a front. Those startups have nothing to back up their inventions. Just take a look at their research. It doesn't hold up once you start digging. The poster children for these scams are con artists. Luthor makes them quit college and puts them in the best marketing schools. They’re masters of personal branding just like Luthor. No one dares to look past their self-made geniuses stories. They serve one purpose: attract investors and close deals even if what they're selling is garbage. Luthor collects the money and goes missing once the scam starts falling apart. It's just a matter of time now. Those wizz kids are gonna be exposed. I can't believe so many of the respected scientists and businessmen accept the positions of board members at these startups. I’d like to believe they're in for a rude awakening but I wasn't born yesterday, unlike Mr. Kent._

The last part is such an unnecessary jab. The Bat seems to be full of them:

_Please. Higher circles of Metropolis are full of ignorant airheads. If they buy fake art pieces time after time without consultation, we shouldn't feel sorry for them. Miss Prince has been vocal about this problem for years. The only way to stop it is to make the rich collectors more mindful of their spending. In other words: not gonna happen. We could all use those pink glasses of yours, Mr. Kent._

Clark grits his teeth. He wishes he could stop reading. Instead of doing that, he clicks on the next comment:

_What is this? Another fluff piece for Luthor? I can’t imagine he pays that well. He’s too much like his father._

He couldn’t even keep up with the amount of comments the Bat has left; it seemed that he read the entire blog, which was a pleasant tickle to Clark’s ego until he got to the more insulting parts:

_Investigative journalism can't be this lukewarm if it’s meant to stay relevant. _

But what riled up Clark the most was the response he got under the short sum up of the significant drop of murders in Metropolis over the past few years:

_Numbers are down because officers in charge do not classify the deaths as murders. They are encouraged to do so by Luthor who creates the illusion of safe Metropolis. Good statistics get officers new equipment and bonus checks. Bad bring cuts in funding. ‘Safe Metropolis’ guarantees Luthor more money than troubled Metropolis. Murders end up being classified as suicides, accidents, missing cases, natural causes. Staggering amount of murder cases never goes under investigation. Those victims will never know justice. Are you ready to decide which bodies don’t count, Mr. Kent? _

That was the final straw. Clark started writing his reply, deleted it, then wrote it again and deleted once more. He had to walk around his apartment for a long while to gather his thoughts. It’s a troll who ran out of things to hate on. It’s some sad loser who thinks he knows everything but in reality he hasn’t stepped outside of his house in years. It’s someone who got bored one evening and had nothing better to do than to read about a guy from a meme. It's a whistleblower who doesn't know which horn to blow. It’s someone from the police. Whatever’s the truth, Clark shouldn’t humor him with an answer. That’s exactly what the asshole on the other side of the web wants. He should focus on the people who left nice comments or at least engaged in the discussion in a more polite way. He should do that.

Clark stays up until two in the morning, addressing every single one of the Bat’s remarks.

That doesn’t bring the kind of satisfaction he expected. He’s so aggravated his jerk off fantasy becomes violent and raw: he fucks Bruce Wayne in the VIP lounge of the Metropolis stadium. The Gotham team loses. All of the losing players get fucked by the winners right there on the field to the cheers of the crowd. What they don’t see is Bruce getting impaled on Clark’s dick over and over again until he begs him to just come already. “You won, you get to come in me just like I wanted... From the moment I saw your face…”

“Woah,” Clark huffs breathlessly when he comes back to his senses. That was intense. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to enjoy the state of bliss for too long: he has to get up in just a few hours to open the shop. He wishes he could take a proper vacation leave. His wallet won’t allow it.


	5. Chapter 5

“Dude”, Vic greets Clark with a concerned voice, “are you okay?”

“Yeah. What, why? What happened?” Clark panics a little. “Am I a meme again?”

“No but… I thought you’d get some rest on your day off. You just don’t look rested, man.” Clark sighs. He doesn’t want to admit why he has dark circles under his eyes. The very thought of the Bat makes him want to smash something. Staying up late to reply to his comments feels even worse in the cold light of day. “I was writing and lost track of time. Don’t worry about me.”

“Writing, huh. Like texting hot mamacitas and papitos?”

“No.”

“Maybe one papi in particular?”

“Victor, I am begging you…”

“Come on, gimmie something!” Victor smacks him on the back with a dishrag. “Not one girl in your DMs good enough for you? Seriously?”

“Leave me alone, man.” Clark balances on a thin line between being annoyed and really fucking pissed off. Truth is, he deleted all of the messages he got without reading them because the clogged inbox was overwhelming. He tried to act more professional with his work email but gave up after seeing more dick pictures in 30 minutes than he has in his entire lifetime. “Go mop the floor now. I’ll take care of supplies.”

“All right.” They quietly prepare the Typewriter for the opening. Clark is thankful for this moment of peace; he has to collect himself before he goes off on the wrong person. A cup of the strongest blend they have in stock brings him back to life. It came from Kongo and it might be a kind of magic. “Hey, sorry for being a dick earlier,” he says when they unpack the delivery. “It’s cool, bro.” Vic gives him a sympathetic smile. “I’m just tired of this. I hope today we will get back to normal.”

“Good thing you weren’t here yesterday. A lot of people were asking about you.”

“Great.” Clark picks up flavored syrups that just came in. There’s one he doesn’t recognize. “What is this? Pink for coffee?”

“Yeah, that’s going to be today’s special. Rose latte for ten bucks, remember that.” Victor writes it down on a blackboard behind the bar. “Is it any good?” Clark frowns at a vintage design of a rose on the label. It would be a great fit for a shower gel but food and beverage seem like a stretch. “Don’t know. It’s Mera’s idea to get more money from the ladies you attract.”

“Oh Christ almighty...” Clark is already done with the day and it hasn’t even started yet. Fortunately, no one jumps right at him when they open the doors. Everything feels the way it did last week when Clark was just a common nobody. A couple of college students asks him for a picture but they make him laugh so he doesn’t mind. Some giggling girls do show up and order rose lattes but that isn’t so bad either. Even the scary biker guy shows up, orders his flat white and moves to the far corner of the shop. It’s smooth sailing up until the lunch hour when Barry starts his shift. “Look who’s back!” He smiles at Clark while trying to button up his work shirt. “How was your day off, bro? Did you get some sleep? Ate well? Got picked up by a private jet and carried away on a romantic date in Paris?”

“Quiet!” Vic yells before Clark makes a sound. “Touchy subject!”

“I appreciate the concern but it’s fine.” Clark gives him a pat on the back before replying to Barry: “No. I was at home, doing some chores and writing.”

“That’s it?”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Okay, I’ve had enough,” Barry says dramatically. “Gentlemen, we’re going out tomorrow. We’re young, we’re smart, we’re funny, we’re handsome…”

“Aaawww bro, you’re making me blush,” Vic interrupts and covers his cheeks with a piece of cloth. “…and we’re single! Why are we single? Why is that, my dudes? It’s time for a change. We need to make the most out of this situation! We’re gonna hit some bars and just put ourselves out there. Who’s with me?” No one reacts. “Come on!” Barry looks slightly hurt. “Wouldn’t you like to have someone to cuddle during those cold, lonely Metropolis nights?”

“I don’t know man. I’m too invested in the story about Clark saving Bruce Wayne from Tommy Elliott to care about my own romantic life,” Vic takes a sip form his coffee mug and looks Clark in the eye. “What?!” Clark nearly spills all of the grounds he just gathered from the coffeemaker on the floor. “Excuse me, can I have a decaf latte, please?” A woman by the bar asks politely and that reminds him his shift is over. He just flees right away. “We’re still going out tomorrow!” Barry yells after him as he’s closing the door to the backroom.

\---

Back in his flat, Clark tries to get in touch with Atomos – one of the startups the Bat has classified as scams. He can’t explain why he feels the need to do it. The best explanation he can offer to himself is a reporter’s hunch. And maybe he wants to prove the bastard wrong. Someone definitely should.

No one from Atomos has responded to the email he has sent this morning. It’s weird because they’ve always been very chatty. Like many of the Metropolis Silicone Valley up and coming companies, their net worth skyrocketed as suddenly as they popped up on the market. It took them little over a year to become one of the most famous startups on this side of the Pacific ocean. Their invention was called Meitner: a device that could provide a small town with clean energy without any radioactive waste. The idea quickly gained popularity. Some serious investments followed through. According to the CEO, Ralph Cowan, the first Meitner machine was supposed to be sold and activated just a few months ago.

Except that Clark couldn’t find any proof that it did happen. Atomos has a lot of press coverage but not that many documented success. Clark tries to call the headquarters. He starts to wonder if they really are con artists and if he’s one of the many people that have been fooled by the wide-eyed, young entrepreneurs who just want a better world for everyone. Finally, someone picks up the phone. “Atomos office, how can I help you?”

“Hi, it’s Clark Kent. I’ve written about your company a while ago…”

“Hey Clark! I remember you!”

“Oh, is… is that you, Ralph? I didn’t recognize you.” Clark is puzzled. Why on Earth the CEO of a company that hires over a hundred people picks up a phone call intended for the public relations department? “Yeah, of course I remember! You were one of the best reporters I’ve ever spoken to. I’m dead serious, man. It’s great to work with genuine people. I consider you to be the rising star of journalism. You’re gonna go so far, Clark. I can’t wait to see what you’re gonna accomplish.” He sounds friendly and honest. His words make Clark feel like he really is great, that he’s gonna make it. Ralph says it so naturally, he’s always candid, he always…

…says exactly what Clark wants to hear.

“I’m flattered but I wanted to ask about your sales,” he goes straight to the point so Ralph doesn’t have enough room for sweet talk: “Who bought the first Meitner?” There’s silence on the other side of the line. “You vultures are all the same!” Ralph yells just when Clark is sure the guy hang up on him. “Who sent you? Who wants to destroy me?! Answer me!”

“I’m a freelancer. I just want to know which city decided to buy the Meitner.”

“I’m not talking to any of you! Tell your scum friends they’re destroying an idea that could’ve change the world! You motherfuckers have no morals! You fucking sellouts!” This time he does hang up, leaving Clark with even more questions than before. Clearly things aren’t going so well for the startup.

He hates himself for it but in the spur of the moment he writes a reply to one of the Bat’s comments:

_What do you know about Atomos?_

Somehow he expects that a response will just pop up immediately on his screen. He gets hot headed when he smells a scoop in the air – even Lois pointed it out at some point.

Some further research proves that none of the startups in Metropolis successfully merged into working businesses. Most of them faded to nothing in silence even though they were on everyone’s hot list just about two years ago. New preppy companies with excellent social media presence took their place in the spotlight. The newest it-girl of the Metropolis tech scene is Luma Lynai: she scored her first national magazine cover last week. No one seems to bring up what happened to her predecessors. Clark takes notes.

He is on his way to the Hut when a weird email shows up in his box. The address looks like a spam account. The subject window is empty. He clicks on the message anyway. Virus or not, his heart is pounding heavily. 

_Atomos is a scam. It’s impossible to create a machine like Meitner with today’s knowledge. Perhaps in 30 years. Ralph Cowan hired dozens of scientists and fired them when they voiced their concerns. He’s all alone now. Luthor quietly sold his shares in Atomos months ago and cut all ties. Now Cowan has to deal with angry investors by himself. He is going to face jail time. _

Clark doesn’t need footnote to know exactly who’s behind the email. 

_Where did you get that information?_

This time the answer comes right away.

_Do you really think I’m gonna blow my cover, Mr. Kent? _

Clark sends out another email, politely asking for cooperation on the matter, but he’s hit with a notification that this address does not exist. He thinks about it until he reaches the Hut premises. Just around the corner he sees a small silhouette: Billy Batson, one of the children Clark tutors, is on his way back home. “Hi, Mr. Kent!” He greets Clark politely. “Hey Billy. What are you doing here today? Reading and writing is tomorrow, remember?”

“Yes. Doctor checked my eyes. I didn’t cry!” He proudly presents a lollipop. Clark completely forgot that an optician was visiting the Hut today. “I’m gonna wear glasses like you!”

“Awesome.” Clark isn’t sure where the kid is going to get the money for a pair of glasses. Looks like there’s another fundraiser that needs to happen.

Kara’s excitement for the renovation is contagious. “You won’t believe the deal I snatched!”

“I’m all ears,” he leaves his bike at the front door. “We’re gonna have shiny new kitchen utensils for free! Well ok, they’re not for free, but it’s a steal. When they heard it’s for charity, they dropped the price by half! Can you believe?!”

“Yeah, it is pretty shocking.”

“I know!” She jumps around a little, unabashed in her happiness. “By the way, I’m really gonna need your help with the contractors. There’s a few I’ve found on the web but I don’t know if they’re any good.”

“We’ll work on that, don’t worry.”

“And oh, I just remembered… Funny thing… We were invited by The Wayne Family Foundation to send an official request for school supplies. You know. _The_ Wayne.” She smirks. “Coincidence?”

“I had nothing to do with this. Please, don’t get any ideas.”

“Okey-dokey, if you insist… I hope you do realize it’s all thanks to you.” She radiates with energy as if she’s the sun. “Like, I really don’t know how to thank you for what you did. And Lois, too. I’m never gonna be able to repay you guys.”

“I, for one, am just making coffee,” Clark smirks. “Stop selling yourself short!” Kara punches him in the arm. “You always do that and it’s making you no favors.”

“Are you a life coach now?” He asks as they get into the office space. “Well, you could use one. No offence.”

“None taken.”

“By the way, are you going to Barry’s place tomorrow?”

“How do you know about that?”

“We talk, doofus. It’s what people do. He invited me but I have my big plans so, you know. But you’re going.”

“I haven’t decided yet, thanks.”

“Come on, you need to go out more! No one’s gonna find you in that sweet little nest you’ve made for yourself!”

“Mother? Is that you?”

“You’re awful but you’re still going out tomorrow.” The office phone rings loudly. “It’s Friday night, live a little!” Kara picks up and has a long conversation with the Hut’s accountant.

Clark goes through the list of potential contractors but he can’t stop thinking about the weird case of disappearing startups. It feels like his mind works on two tracks simultaneously: one takes care of the task in front of him while the other is piecing the article together. Once he’s in front of his computer, the words just magically come to life at an impressive pace. He posts the finished piece on the blog with a sense of accomplishment. It’s satisfying but exhausting: he skips shower and goes straight to the bed when he’s done.

Sleep doesn’t bless him right away. He remembers what Victor has said earlier today and before he can decide against it, he searches for information on Tommy Elliot. What he finds doesn’t surprise him at all: member of Gotham’s higher class. Wealthy, talented surgeon. Harvard graduate. Tall and well-built. Bruce Wayne’s on and off boyfriend, allegedly.

Looks like a long time ago they’ve been Gotham’s sweethearts. Then Tommy revealed some nasty personality traits and lost a lot of friends. Bruce denied that they were ever romantically involved but in Clark’s opinion, some pictures of them together look questionable. Gotham’s online forums were burning with speculations that Clark was going to be the one who saves Bruce form the toxic relationship. He rolled his eyes so much at these revelations that his head started to hurt. Perhaps he should ask Vic to be the virtual messenger of bad news to the people on the other side of the bay.

His heart skipped a beat when he found some rumors about a leaked sex tape of the two. They lead him to nudes of multiple people who claimed to be Bruce Wayne. The lie is obvious to Clark. That man in the picture is too short. That one? Too sturdy. This one could fool him but the chin is all wrong. This one? Not even close. The alleged sex tape is just two guys fucking in a very dark hotel room – it could’ve been any gay couple in the world.

Before he can stop himself, fantasies about what Bruce Wayne’s dick looks like creep up on him and provide very graphic images. He hopes it’s curved upwards – very effective for doggy style. “God damn it,” Clark whispers to himself when his hand slips down to his private parts. It’s been years since he tried bottoming; he touches the rim of his hole to check if he still enjoys it. The electrifying pulse that travels through his spine tells him that he indeed likes it very much. With a grunt, Clark takes off his underwear and uses both hands to pleasure himself. He spreads his legs wide to get a better angle. Good ol’ Jergens will have to suffice as lube.

His efforts don’t bring immediate results. Stretching himself is a little uncomfortable: feels more like a medical checkup than something exciting. It really gets going when he thinks about Bruce Wayne draped all over his back. In the fantasy landscape, he pins Clark to the bed with his heavy weight. Those mediocre boys on the Internet could never be him. His hot breath burns Clark’s neck. “Does it feel good?” He whispers into Clark’s ear, so brutally close to every inch of his body. Yes, it feels amazing to be stretched open and stuffed to the brim, how could he ever live without it. “I’ll give it to you any time you want,” Bruce forces himself in and out in the perfect rhythm. Gentle but relentless. The tip of his beautiful, thick penis teases Clark’s prostate with every stroke. That’s what pushes Clark towards the point of no return.

He’s incredibly happy that no one will ever know what he thinks about when he jerks off.   


\---

Numerous online news outlets were interested in publishing Clark’s piece on their websites. He got pumped until he realized not one of them was going to pay him for it. After giving some thought to the matter, he was ready to take the offer from the most reputable one but Lois stopped him in his tracks. “You’re too old to work for portfolio, Smallville.” She’s right as usual.

Barry’s place is not something Clark has expected. First of all, it’s in the area of Metropolis that is soon going to be bulldozed by Lex Luthor to make place for an apartment complex. Second, it’s not really a flat – more like an old, red brick storehouse, and third – it’s most definitely a squat.

Clark is a little embarrassed that this is his first visit to Barry’s place. If he knew, maybe then he could be able to help him out. The street is dead silent. Even rats have left this place. The atmosphere is weird. Usually city buildings that were meant to be demolished were already crumbling to pieces. Here they’re in a pretty good condition. In need of some renovation, yes, but nothing major. Most of them aren’t even that old. Clark recognizes a brewery that could still be going but went bankrupt a few years ago. Deserted areas have some sort of eerie charm: this place feels hollow, like the life has been sucked out of it.

Clark bites his lip, feeling guilty. There has to be something that can be done. Perhaps if he wasn’t so caught in his narcissistic cycle of thinking only about himself, he could leave his apartment more often and reach out to people. He really has to stop wailing in self pity.

“Hey man!” Barry greets him with the usual dose of warmth. “Come on, come on in!” The inside is cluttered with books and weird knick knacks. It isn’t messy – there’s clearly some sort of system working in this chaos. Music blasts from speakers that look like they were handmade. Barry is one of those people who can’t just pursue one interest: his mind is as quick as his body and he finds a lot of things interesting, from physics to police investigations and different kinds of coffee blends. That curiosity is something Clark can relate to. Well, at least his old, college student self can. 

Vic looks busy in the surprisingly well designed kitchen. “Hi bro!” He greets Clark happily. “Prepare to have your taste buds blown away.”

“Are you cooking?” Clark asks. “What, you thought we were gonna order some shitty pizza?”

“Victor has some very strong opinions on pizza in Metropolis,” Barry gives Clark a telling look and opens up a bottle of whisky. “You can’t buy good pizza in Metropolis. That’s it. End of discussion.”

“But there’s this place run by Italians…” Clark says but gets interrupted: “Italians? You want real Italian pizza? Go to Angelo’s on 110th street in Gotham.” Victor sends a chef’s kiss up in the air. _“Molto bene.”_

“Angelo’s?” Clark is sure he has heard the name before. “Isn’t that the mafia’s front?”

“Well, kind of. It used to be but not anymore.”

“You mean after eight people were massacred over there?”

“Why do you have to bring up the past! It was Falcone’s war and it’s over, okay? Now big mama Ludovica owns the place and she doesn’t allow any bullshit in her kitchen.” 

“I’ll drink to that! Gentlemen!” Barry offers them both a shot. “To a great night!” Whisky isn’t the best but it could be a lot worse. It leaves a pleasant burn and little bit of buzz and that’s all that matters. “So, what are you making?” Clark asks and puts the shot glass on the counter. “Nothing. Just the best mac and cheese[1] in the world,” Vic says proudly. “I’m gonna deep dive into this and suffocate,” Barry says wistfully to the bowl of pasta. “It’s not ready! Pass the cottage cheese.”

“Cottage cheese… in mac and cheese?” Clark sounds skeptical. “Extra cheesiness for my bros,” Vic smiles. “What’s the Kansas way of making mac and cheese, huh?”

“I don’t know. Buy the Kraft stuff and follow instructions on the box?”

“Clark, bro, I’m sorry,” Vic sighs, “I’m so sorry you have shit taste in food.”

“Hey!”

“Who wants another shot?” Barry pours whisky into glasses without waiting for an answer. It’s way too soon for another round but no one brings it up. “Remember, we’re going out today. Getting all of the girls and all of the boys if y’all want to. Let’s drink to the best night of our lives!”

“Cheers!” The second round somehow tastes better than the first. “Pretty good stuff,” Clark says. “I know right? Another one?”

“Wow, slow down! You’re not gonna impress anybody if you’re shit-faced.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, all right?” Barry looks offended. “I know how much alcohol I can handle.”

“Nah, you don’t.” Victor takes away the bottle. “Now, grab the coconut oil and grease the casserole dish.”

“Coconut oil?...”

“You have no say in my kitchen, country boy.”

“All right, you can be the boss,” Clark puts his hands in the air to show he gives up. “You know what could ease the tension between a diehard city slicker and a cowboy?” Barry asks. “We’re not making a porn.” Vic reacts quickly, almost like they’ve had this conversation before. “No, not that! I meant tequila!”

“No.”

“Yes!” Barry disappears for a second and comes back with a bottle. “Before we die of alcohol poisoning,” Clark says, “you two need to know that I’m not a cowboy. I’m a _farmer.”_

“There’s a difference?” Vic looks shocked. “Let me guess, you think milk comes from a carton,” Clark teases. “I don’t know about milk, but I do know tequila!” Barry pushes shots towards them. “We really are going to die,” Vic whispers but drinks anyway. Clark follows in his steps. Fuck it, he’s young.

Before the food is ready, they’re already on the second bottle of whisky. They’re sprawled on a mismatched set of chairs – Craigslist treasures as Barry called them. He changed the music from k-pop to some lo-fi chillout. The mood has switched as well: the food, the music and the comfy chairs made the trio feel very mellow. Evening turned into night: the place is scarcely lit and looks even more mysterious. “You have playstation?” Clark is surprised to see the equipment next to a giant television screen. “Yeah. Some girl found out her husband was cheating on her and sold his stuff for pennies. I should get rid of it though. I’ll never graduate if I play games all day long.”

“Aww come on, man,” Vic protests. “Where am I going to get my daily fix?”

“Well I don’t know, try to get your own maybe?”

“This way you’ll never eat my mac and cheese again.”

“…The playstation stays.”

“Cool.”

“It’s great by the way,” Clark’s face is stuffed so he can barely talk. “Told ya. Never underestimate my cooking skills, Kansas.”

“I think it’s the coconut oil,” Barry studies a single piece of macaroni like it’s a proof in crime investigation. “And the cottage cheese. Separate, they’re interesting but not special enough, ya feel? It’s the mix that makes a difference. Combined they make… Vic ‘n cheese.”

Clark laughs so hard he chokes on his food. “Holy shit, dude,” Barry hits him in the back vigorously but looks pretty pleased with himself. “What can I say? I love a terrible pun,” Clark wipes the tears from the corners of his eyes. “Big guy killed by a pun,” Vic looks disappointed. “You’d be rat kibble in Gotham.”

“Yeah, you better watch out. Gotham has the ginormous radioactive predator kind of rats.”

“For the last time, it’s not true! Stop reading urban legends on the Internet.”

“If it’s not true then what do the mole people eat?”

“Oh no, mole people are real. Don’t joke about them. They don’t like it.”

“What?…”

“Anyway, how did you find this place, Barry?” It’s Clark’s turn to pour alcohol. “It’s great. Doesn’t look like it from the outside though.”

“That’s the best part!” Barry takes the glass and spills some of the contents on the carpet – he doesn’t even notice. “It’s like a secret hideout. When I got here, it was a squat of some anarchy kids. You know, like, ultra left wing. One day they decided to move to California and just gave me the keys. I’m really gonna miss this place when Luthor churns it to dust.”

“Do you have somewhere to stay when that happens?”

“We’ll see,” Barry shrugs. “Maybe I’ll have to move back to Central City.”

“Your scholarship won’t cover anything else?” Vic asks, visibly worried. “Not with these prices. Metropolis is getting expensive, bros.”

“Tell me about it,” Clark downs his shot. “What kind of scholarship do you have?”

“Wayne’s scholarship for children of prisoners sentenced to life.” When he sees the shock on Clark’s face, Barry adds: “Yeah man, Bruce Wayne has a lot of charities. He’s a good guy. You should give him a chance, ya know.”

“That’s not… How… What…”

“They think my dad killed my mom. He’s innocent.” Barry drinks half of his whiskey and makes a disgusted face. “I don’t have enough money to prove it but one day I will. He didn’t do it. You don’t have to believe me, I don’t care. I was there. I remember. He didn’t do anything.” He drinks the rest. “I know how this sounds. I’ve heard it all before. Don’t give me any bullshit, I don’t care what anyone thinks. I know my dad didn’t do it.”

No one dares to say another word after that so Clark pours another round. “I’m adopted,” he says out of the blue – even he’s surprised by it. “I wish I died in the accident instead of my mom.” Victor joins the choir. They drink in silence until the bottle is nearly empty. It’s clear no one’s in the mood to go out and party. “Who’s up for some Mortal Kombat?” Barry can barely sit up straight. “I thought you’d never ask.” Vic is the first to reach the gaming pad.

Clark gets back to his place sometime after midnight. He can’t be sure what time it is – he can’t even remember the last time he was this inebriated. Taking the clothes off causes minor mayhem in the bedroom. He wish he had someone waiting for him to come home. He’s sick of going to bed alone every single night. Life is so unfair. He’s stuck at a low income job, his ambitions and love life are dead, Barry dreams of getting his father out of jail, and Victor doesn’t know how to pick up the pieces of his life after the accident. All of them struggle with money and just keeping their heads above water but there are waves incoming every day. Meanwhile, Luthor and Wayne get to live carelessly in their crystal castles and do whatever they fucking want. This is not fair.

He tries to jerk off but gives up after a few strokes – he’s way too drunk for that. When he closes his eyes, he thinks that Bruce Wayne definitely gives good hugs with that wide frame of his. It’d be nice to get a hug like that. What would be even nicer is to have someone waiting for him to come home, someone to cuddle and spoon in bed.

There’s an email icon blaring on his phone’s screen but he’s already asleep.

[1] Mack and Jeezy by Terry Crews (recipe via Tasty.co)

Ingredients: 8 oz elbow macaroni, 1 package, 2 cups cream-style cottage cheese, or small curd, 2 cups sharp cheddar cheese, shredded, 8 oz sour cream, 1 carton, 1 egg, lightly beaten, 1 teaspoon salt, 1 tablespoon coconut oil, paprika to garnish

Preparation: Cook macaroni “al dente” according to package directions. Drain with cold water. Preheat oven to 350°F (180°C). In a bowl, combine cottage cheese, cheese, sour cream, egg, and salt. Fold in macaroni. Grease a 2-quart (2 liters) casserole dish with coconut oil. Spoon mixture into casserole dish and sprinkle with extra cheese and paprika. Bake for 45 minutes.


	6. Chapter 6

_Asking the hard questions. Maybe you’re a real journalist after all._

Bat’s email was just a beginning of Clark’s ongoing shitty season.

It didn’t start of too badly: the scary biker guy bought his morning flat white at the Typewriter and complimented his article. It caught Clark off guard, but he thanked him, meaning he (hopefully) won’t have to deal with an entire gang that would love to teach him some manners.

The person responsible for most of his manners, Ma, read the article too and was very happy that he managed to post something on the blog. Lois even left him a positive comment which encouraged some of her colleagues to do the same. It was modest recognition but a lot more than he has had in years. For once, he didn’t feel like a total failure.

His quick visit to the shelter broke his heart when he heard that Miss Hissy returned from adoption. “She needs a real cat lover, the rascal.” Nigel said, visibly disappointed. “Sometimes I get the feeling that some cats are just meant to be stray cats, you know? It’s not a happy thought but look at poor Hissy. Maybe the streets are her natural habitat after all.”

The storm that has been brewing above Metropolis for the entire week finally gave in – right before Clark left the Hut to go to Diana’s welcome home party because that’s just his luck. He wasn’t even supposed to be at the Hut that day; Kara called, crying about a leaking pipe just as he finished getting ready. It’d be difficult to find a handyman on Saturday afternoon, so there was no choice other than to do it all by himself. Fortunately, the leak wasn’t that serious, but now he’s late and his tie is dirty.

Metropolis’ skyscrapers look almost like waterfalls in the heavy rain. There’s no wind so the droplets fall heavily on the glass, flow to the ground with no hurry. It’s warm and surprisingly sunny – perfect conditions for rainbows to come into bloom. Children play in the puddles as Clark’s cab passes them by. He chose to spend a few dollars instead of riding a bike to keep his nice clothes intact. The lavender shirt is a birthday gift from Lois and goes pretty well with the new pants. The stained tie couldn’t be salvaged so Clark decides to just take it off. For all of his wariness, somehow he still got wet. Humid weather turns his hair into a mess of curls that refuses to get into place. All of this makes him even more nervous: as happy as he is to see Diana after such a long time, he would prefer to meet her without all the fancy people around. He keeps telling himself he shouldn’t feel inadequate – the affirmation doesn’t seem to work at all.

The doorman greets him politely but his eyes seem judgmental… or maybe that’s just Clark’s imagination. He takes off his smudgy glasses and goes to the elevator. He already feels bad for leaving wet shoe prints on the pristine floor of the town house. The bottle of wine in his hand suddenly feels incredibly cheap even though it wasn’t. As the elevator goes down, every fiber in his body protests. He doesn’t want to be here.

A man dressed in black stands behind the automatic door and Clark instantly knows who he is, before his eyes can even register the reality and send the information to the brain, before he can think of how to act, before he can get himself in check and prepare the most appropriate way of saying hello, it just happens the way tides happen in the moonlight.

Bruce Wayne doesn’t recognize him and just gets on his way out.

“H-hi,” Clark stammers when Bruce is by his side. He turns around to face him, his face blank with only a hint of surprise showing. “Clark,” he says softly. “I didn’t recognize you without the glasses.”

“Yeah, well, I get that all the time,” he chuckles, anxious, tense, using every ounce of self-control he has to stop himself from saying _I was thinking of you while jacking off every night for the past week._ “I see. Have a good evening.” Bruce nods, then walks away. 

Clark’s heart beats like crazy on his way up. Was Bruce trying to avoid him? Pretend they never met? Did he really didn’t recognize him? Was that an act? Was it because he’s tired? He sure looked tired. Is that why he’s leaving the party so early? Why Lois didn’t tell him Bruce was going to be there? Did Bruce leave when he heard he was invited? Was he angry at all of the stupid shit about the two of them on the Internet? Is he meeting someone? Date? Is he going on a date? Here, in Metropolis? Is he dating someone for real? Was the other person hurt by the allegations? Is this the reason why Bruce didn’t even want to make some small talk by the elevator? Did he forget about him entirely? No, he remembered the name. Did he realize Clark is poor? As in really, really poor? A poor dork who makes coffee? Have Lois said something? Maybe someone was annoying at the party? Is he going to work on Saturday night? Did he think their meeting would be too awkward? Is he scared of awkward situations just like the regular folks? Why would he be? He’s rich and famous and handsome and confident and the smell of his perfume lingers in the elevator like a promise of bountiful summer.

_Why the hell do I even care?_

Clark stands in front of the flat number 41 and takes a deep breath. It’s just a coincidence. A good one, actually. Bruce probably was being an asshole as usual and just left. Maybe he can’t be around peasants for longer than an hour or else his body will spontaneously combust. This means they won’t have to be in the same room. No one saw them together so there’ll be no water for the rumor mill. Clark can talk to people and maybe even enjoy himself a little. If he could only breathe again, that’d be really nice, he could use some air.

Diana just came back from filming the final season of her hit show – Amazons: a documentary series about women living in the most secluded parts of the world. Diana finds them, learns about their customs, their language, and becomes one of them – she has a way of connecting with everyone she meets. Each episode shows women from a different part of the globe. No matter if it’s a rainforest, mountain top, tiny island, or a sizzling desert, they open up to Diana and tell all about their daily struggles. The show has won multiple awards, both for the extraordinary, high quality content and the host’s natural charisma that earned her the position of executive producer on the series.

Years of Diana’s work on the show have been a base for her doctorate. To the surprise of absolutely no one, recently she has been offered a tenure at the University of Metropolis Department of Anthropology – an offer she gladly accepted now that Lois was pregnant with their baby. In the latest interviews, she has said that she was ready to settle down. “Adventures are great but family comes first,” Diana told the anchorman during the morning news the day after she came back to the city. Her plans for the future included carrying for Lois and the baby, teaching, and exploring an area of study she was always fascinated with but neglected because of the travels: art history.

“Country boy!” She screams happily when she opens the door. “You made it!” Her hugs feel like teddy bears and sunshine. Clark really did miss her, even though she often makes him feel like he should try harder with everything he does. Back in the day he used to hate her; it was during the time Lois started talking about this new amazing girl she has met and that she might be the one while Clark was dying inside from heartbreak. Now he holds no grudges. Lois couldn’t pick any better. If he was in her position, Clark would choose Diana over himself at any time. “Sorry I’m late,” he apologizes, offering the wine. “Don’t be silly! Emergency is emergency. Thank you for the wine! You’re sweet! You shouldn’t have! Come in, there are people who’d love to meet you. Oh, let’s get you dry first, shall we?”

She drags him by the hand in the direction of the kitchen, her body clad in perfectly fitted blue dress. The two-story apartment is a perfect mix of old and new with an undeniably feminine décor. Books and souvenirs from lands far away mingle with subtle patterns on the walls. Glass vases with fresh flowers emerge from every corner. Every piece of furniture seems soft, cylindrical. With five bedrooms, three bathrooms, library, home office, vast living room with a fireplace and a terrace on the roof, the place is a safe haven for many years to come. Lois and Diana bought it last year for the start of their mutual life journey. Clark has been here before a few times but it’s still as impressive as it was at first glance, even now when his vision is blurry. “Here,” Diana hands him a roll of paper towels. Two young waiters immediately leave the kitchen with trays of champagne – looks like they were taking an impromptu break. “Thanks!” Clark dries his hair first. “How was your flight?”

“Country boy, please, spare me the small talk.” Diana says it without malice; her smile makes her eyes shine with inner light. “Ask me anything else, I beg you!”

“Right. Sorry.” Once again, he reminds himself to breath. He’s among friends. It shouldn’t be nerve-wrecking. “It’s good to see you though.”

“You too. It’s good to be back.”

“So how does it feel like to end the show?” Clark wipes his glasses and puts them on. “Wistful, really. I am going to miss the madness. But it’s about time, you know?”

“You didn’t want to do it anymore?” Clark is surprised – Diana loved the production process, even when it was driving her mad. “It’s not about what I want. More like… There’s a right time and place for everything. But time passes and places change. You can’t stop the stream. Better to go with the flow.” She chuckles. “Gods, am I even making sense? I’m sorry, it’s the jet lag talking.”

“No, I understand. It’s good to let go of things.”

“Yes. So you can make space for new things to come. Speaking of,” the look on her face becomes somewhat mischievous, “have you met any new people while I was away?” Clark feels like his proverbial balloon has just been popped. “Not you too…”

“Okay, please don’t get upset. Just listen. He’s not here, he left. But! Here me out!” She pours him a glass of wine he has brought like it’s suppose to make him pay attention. “Lois told me you were uncomfortable with how things went down. I understand, it was a little weird but you need to hear me out.” She gets oddly passionate, her eyes focused on Clark like laser beams. Ancient stories of gods and heroes were driven by people like her to be captured and immortalized in scrolls, sculptures and pictures. “I genuinely think you two would make a good match.”

“Diana…”

“I’m serious! I swear on Aphrodite’s temple! You two have a lot in common. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. He had to leave early today but I wanna set you up for a date.”

“What, did your party interfere with his weekly lounge in the pool of gold coins?”

“No, he had to catch a red eye flight to Hong Kong. Come on, Clark, he’s not what you think he is. You have to trust me!”

“He’s not even my type so jot that down.” It shouldn’t be possible but Diana’s stare becomes even more relentless. “You’re lying, Clark Kent,” she says confidently. “No I’m not.” His denial sounds like it has been said by a petulant child, not a confident, independent adult. He hates himself for it and decides to hide the fact they’ve accidentally met by the elevator. “Listen, even if he was my type – which he is not – he’s still an asshole. I don’t date assholes.”

“He’s not! You’re just prejudiced. Remember, I knew him for a lot longer than you do. He’s actually kind of great.” Clark is about to hit below the belt, so he downs his glass of wine in hopes it’ll give him some courage. “Well, why didn’t you date him then?” He asks calmly. “I heard there was something between the two of you.”

“Oh no, no, don’t try to twist everything round.” Diana points her finger at him. “We were flirting, I’ll admit. That’s all! Nothing happened. Nothing serious anyway.”

“All right. What about the baby he abandoned? Is that what great guys do nowadays? I wasn’t aware.”

“You mean Selina’s little girl?” She looks surprised. “He’s not the father. She told me.”

“Wait, you know her?” Rich people world seems even smaller than the regular one. “Of course! Selina is an amazing art consultant. A real treasure. She can smell a fake from twenty miles away. I don’t know how she does it, honestly. My mother was _this_ close to buying some early Matisse before Selina jumped in and told us the seller was a fraud. Oh! She helped me find that lost El Greco last year, remember that?”

“You liked her, didn’t you?…” Clark asks. It’s just a hunch. And yet, Diana’s eyes go round with surprise. Checkmate. “I always liked Bruce’s girlfriends more than I liked him.” Diana admits and takes a sip of wine. Then she does something weird: she draws circles in the air surrounding her own chest, whispering: “Amazing rack, like, you wouldn’t even believe how big…”

“Clark! You’re here!” Lois walks into the kitchen, her lovely kitten heels clicking on the tiles. She’s wearing a white cocktail dress and a very bright lipstick that compliments her red hair. If there’s a club for people who can wear without spilling anything over it, Lois is the president. “Hi there.” He gives her a good hug. It gets more difficult the bigger her bump gets. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing something other than six inch heels.”

“I know, it’s awful. But my feet are killing me today,” Lois whines. “Honey, professor Marston wants to talk to you.”

“On it!” Diana has to lean down really hard to kiss her cheek. She leaves them alone in the kitchen, saying: “We had the talk,” on her way out. Once again, Clark is confused. “What?”

“She means Bruce.”

“Can we not?” He sighs. “Don’t get me wrong, I know your intentions are good and I appreciate that you care for me, but…”

“It’s all right, Smallville,” she interrupts, “we’re gonna let go of this. Well, I am. Diana needs some convincing. Just try to ignore her.”

“Uuh. Okay. Thanks.” Clark is taken aback. He thought it would take a lot more pleading to make Lois drop the subject. “Not to sound ungrateful but, uuh, can I ask what made you change your mind so suddenly?” She shrugs. “Nothing major. I talked to him today and he’s just too…”

_Rich? Handsome? Famous? Out of my league?_ In his mind, Clark gets ready for the worst.

“…jaded.” Lois picks up a tiny fruit tartlet from a silver platter. “The more I think about it, the less sense it makes for you to date him. You should be with someone more upbeat.”

“Oh.” Clark can’t remember when was the last he himself felt upbeat. "Right.”

“Come on. I won’t let you spend the entire party hiding in the kitchen.” Truth be told, this is exactly what Clark wanted to do this evening. He grumpily follows her to the living room, not without pouring himself another glass of wine.

The drizzle outside turned into a beautiful evening, as if the weather gods felt it would be rude to Diana and Lois to ruin their party like that; some guests happily flocked to the terrace once it stopped raining. Hired jazz trio is playing a song Clark doesn’t recognize. Even though the penthouse is huge, there’s hardly any space left with all the people present: chatting, laughing, introducing themselves to others. _Mingling._ Clark hates that part of journalism: he could walk around the most shady areas of the city for days, but making connections in the upper society makes him feel like an awkward teenager again. However, this was the best way to gain new sources. “Jimmy, this is the friend you were asking about.” Lois walks up to a tall man by the window. He’s accompanied by two young women. “Jimmy, meet Clark. Clark, this is Jimmy Olsen. He’s a photojournalist.”

“More like a point-and-shooter these days,” Jimmy says and shakes Clark’s hand. “And this is Donna.” Lois introduces the rest of the group. “She’s Diana’s TA. And this is Iris, she is going to have an internship at the Daily Planet this summer.”

“Internship, great! Congratulations!” Clark hopes he doesn’t show how jealous he feels; he’d be ready to make some very questionable things to land a trainee position at the Planet… if only he wasn’t too old to try. The internship was meant for candidates under 26 years old. “Thank you.” Iris smiles shyly. “It’s a dream came true situation, really.”

“Then why do you want to go back to Central City?” Donna chimes in. “I don’t get that.”

“I just love my city, okay? I love it! I wanna live there and settle down with my homies.”

“I do know someone from Central City,” Clark says. “Barry lived there, did you know that Lo?”

“I haven’t! I don’t think I’ve ever been to Central City.”

“It’s the best! You gotta visit me before your due date,” Iris smiles widely. “I’m already homesick.”

“There’s no place like home,” Clark says wistfully, thinking about the golden fields around the farm. He should call Ma some time later. “Of course you’d say that, Smallville.” Lois pats him on the back. “Clark is from Kansas.”

“Oh. Lost your shoes, Dorothy?” Jimmy looks happy to get the reference. “So you’re a cowboy?” Donna smirks at him, suddenly flirtatious. “Only when I’m not making coffee.” They laugh but that doesn’t make Clark feel any better about himself. “You write some pretty good stuff, too. I was talking to Lois about the piece on fishermen in Canada. Terrific stuff.” Jimmy’s praise seems sincere so Clark just nods, lost for words. “Forgive him, he doesn’t know how to take a compliment.” Lois has the tendency to carry him with baby gloves. He used to view that as endearing – now it’s just annoying. “I meant to say thanks, I appreciate it,” he says through gritted teeth. “Are you gonna write anything about how it feels like to be a meme? I think it would be an interesting take on how information functions in digital society.” Iris asks. If dread had a face, it would be Clark’s grimace in this very moment.

“Lois! Clark!” Diana calls for them out of the blue. “I’m sorry but I have to steal them.” She says to the rest of the group and then kind of shepherds them towards someone in a pinstripe suit. “This guy wants to invest in the Typewriter,” she whispers. “With his help, by this time next year we could have a chain. Smile and look like you don’t need him.”

“But we _do_ need him,” Clark says quietly. “He doesn’t need to know that! Disinterest is like cocaine for this type of people, trust me.”

“Act like we already have an investor,” Lois adds. “Exactly! Subtle rejection, that is the key.” Diana agrees and proceeds to introduce the two of them to Albert Caldwell, current president of Metropolis Subway Inc.

It’s hard to decide what is the worst part of the party: being reminded of his status on the Internet, getting bored to death by the potential investor, or meeting Bruce Wayne only to get even more frustrated by his very existence. Clark is mad at himself for thinking about why Lois changed her mind so suddenly. _Jaded_ is such an ambiguous word. Everyone could be jaded from time to time. Life isn’t a bed of roses, even for someone born in a bonnet like Bruce. He has had some struggles, no one can deny it. What did Lois mean by “you should be with someone more upbeat”? Does she have someone specific in mind? Is he that pathetic he actually needs help in finding someone to date? It feels weird to be standing here, in his ex-crush house, watching her at the start of the best part of her life with someone else while he is left with nothing. Clark always viewed himself more as an observer than a doer – maybe because he often feels so out of place.

“…and that’s when Luthor stole the best deal of my life from me!” Clark forces himself to listen to what Albert has to say. “Oh yes, I’d never do business with him.” Diana says, her face oddly unmoved. She really treats the disinterested role seriously. “Wish I had the same thought back then. But that slimy little eel gets away with everything. His companies are dying like flies and he never takes a hit, did you notice that? That company that went to trial for negligence? Remember that? It was Luthor’s! He sold it the day before the building exploded. Did anyone care? Of course not! That’s Metropolis for you.”

“The startup companies. The new ones,” Clark can hear a bell ringing in his brain. “He’s connected to them, right?”

“Hell yeah!” Albert gets heated. “That’s his favorite part. To be a business angel. Load of bullcrap. Those kids who trust him are screwed. The new girl, what’s her name… Lama?”

“Luma. Luma Lynai.”

“Yeah, that’s her. She’s gonna be a nobody in two years, you’ll see. Meanwhile, Luthor will take the money and build brave new Metropolis.”

“How is it possible that so many people still trust him?” Albert laughs bitterly, accepting another round of scotch from the waiter. “Let me tell you something, young man. Some people pay him to be under the umbrella of Lex Corp. Can you imagine?”

“Why would do they do that?”

“For the fame! They do it for the fame! I don’t understand today’s kids and I’m not even that old. They’re ready to pay for a picture with Luthor, can you believe that? Back in my day, you had to work to get noticed by the big fish. Now it’s all smoke and mirrors. You can make millions on horseshit if it’s wrapped in pretty paper and posted on the Internet by the right people. They think being associated with him will give them more options. More options to make a fool of themselves, that’s for sure. He graciously takes the money, of course, then goes Houdini on their asses when everything goes down. Poor fools.”

“I gotta go,” Clark almost sprints to the door. “Why? What happened?” Lois asks with a worried look. “I forgot… I uuuh… I forgot to feed the cat. Sorry! Wonderful party!”

He doesn’t even want to wait for the elevator, so he makes a run down the stairs. Once he’s on the sidewalk, he writes a hectic email to the Bat, hoping this time it will get sent. It does.

_I think I have an idea how to take Luthor down._

He has a small panic attack when the phone pings. It’s an email notification, but not from the Bat.

_Hi,_

_This is Jimmy, we’ve just met. I asked Lois for your email, I hope you don’t mind! Anyways, I didn’t have the chance to ask you something important: would you be willing to take a modeling job? Before you say no (lol I hope you won’t), it’s just for glasses. I’m doing a campaign for a local company and the model resigned last minute. (Probably OD’d in someone’s pool but that’s none of my business.) Anyway, you look good in glasses so I thought it’d be an easy way for you to earn some dollar. Not gonna lie, we could use your clout too lol. The shoot should take place next week. Hit me up if you’re interested but please note this job is very time-sensitive. _

_TTYL,_

_J._

Clark almost gets hit by a car as he tries to process Jimmy’s offer. He could ask him if he’d like to go to Mars and it would be just as probable. Modelling? That just doesn’t seem real. Another email pops up in his box when he gets into a cab.

_Either you have an idea or you don’t. Don’t waste my time with your “thinking”. _

Clark toys with the idea of writing a few sincere but not the most polite words. However, there’s something more important he has to do now.

_Thank you for the quick reply. I need to meet with Luthor face to face outside of his office. Somewhere casual to make it seem like a coincidence. Do you know if he’s going to attend a party or something like that?_

The response comes immediately.

_He is hosting a party at his home. Soon. Charity event for the Library of Metropolis. What’s your plan?_

Plan isn’t exactly formed, not yet, but Clark wants to strike the iron while it’s hot. He quickly puts the pieces together and sees a solution. He calls the number he found in Jimmy’s email footer. “Hi, it’s Clark. Yeah, sorry I had to leave. Listen, about the job. I’m interested but there’s something I need to ask…”


	7. Chapter 7

The shoot took place in Jimmy’s small, cozy studio. It was only him, his assistant, and Clark. The atmosphere was very laid back. Jimmy turned out to be someone with a great sense of humor and a knack for portraits, although he claimed street photography was his real passion. Regardless of his nervousness, Clark had to admit the campaign pictures came out pretty good. Kara chose her favorite one for the tweet:

**ClarkKent**

**Check out @BlueSkyEyewear new summer collection! For every pair of glasses sold in the upcoming month, one will be donated to a person in need who can’t afford it. Thank you for making me a part of this @JimmyOlsenPhotography @TheHutFoundation**

The public reaction was overwhelmingly positive, but not without a few jabs; most of them implied that sleeping with a billionaire could get you any job you want. Clark got defensive – he assured he took part in the campaign pro bono and that he’s currently not dating anyone. He didn’t mention Bruce by name to avoid further conflict. In hindsight, he should’ve kept quiet. The tweet didn’t do much except causing an avalanche of lewd messages in his inbox. It didn’t bother him the way it did before; everything was going according to the plan.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long before Billy got his first pair of glasses. He picked the most gaudy model from the collection: thick-rimmed, red and white with a lightning bolt pattern. Despite his questionable aesthetic choices, the glasses did what they were meant for: Billy’s reading skills improved immediately. His school problems weren’t caused by a disorder like some teachers have suggested – he just couldn’t see everything and it made him frustrated. “You’re just too good to be true, aren’t cha,” Barry beams at Clark when he finishes his story about Billy reading an entire paragraph of a book without stalling. “Clearly not. I’m standing right in front of you.”

“Whatever you say, bro. I’m blown away by your modesty.” He says and takes a sip of his yerba mate tea. The weather got worse again so it’s a slow day at the shop. Today’s special is matcha latte – the green symbolizes spring, at least that’s what Mera has said. A few of the regular patrons occupy nooks by the window. Clark is very grateful that they don’t care about his Internet “fame.” Scary biker guy is there too, with his usual flat white and a heavy book. “Did you see what he’s reading?” Clark asks quietly. “Dunno. Probably something about decapitation techniques.”

“Barry!”

“What? Don’t tell me it wouldn’t suit him.”

“Clean the fridge before he feels like practicing.” Clark throws him a piece of clean cloth. He didn’t mean to hit Barry in the face but doesn’t regret it. The sound of rain is so soothing they turn off the radio. Customers don’t seem to mind. However, Lois does mind. “Why is the music not on?” She asks harshly and doesn’t even wait for an answer, just goes straight to the office. “Are we in trouble?” Barry has cookie crumbles in the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” Clark points right at it. “Don’t even try to tell me this one was broken.”

“Oh come on, man! I’m still growing!”

“No, you’re not. I’ll go check up on her. Try not to eat the entire pastry supply while I’m gone.”

“You can’t just challenge me like that and disappear!”

Lois looks like she has had better mornings in her life. Clark has been waiting for what feels like centuries to discuss his next move with her, but that can wait a little longer. He puts a decaf cappuccino on her desk and rests on the sofa, pretending it was his intention all along. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” He teases. “Like a puppy dog.” She sighs deeply, then gives in: “Diana and I had a fight.”

“About?...” Clark encourages her to elaborate. “About… I don’t know,” she takes off her flat shoes and leans in the chair. “Basically everything. It started with how much I work. Which is too much according to her, obviously.”

“I agree.” Clark says. That earns him a deadly glare. “I can take it from you but from Diana? Look who’s talking. She just came back and the only time I see her is early in the morning. I had to reschedule the doctor’s appointment because she didn’t have the time to go with me, can you imagine?”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. So then she says she has to work a lot now so she can slow down later. Then we will have more time for each other and the baby. On top of that, she’s pushing so hard for the Typewriter to become a chain I…” Lois takes a break to sigh and sip some coffee. “She’s ambitious. I get that. I love that. We’re very much alike. Maybe that’s why we fight. But since we moved into the new apartment it’s like… We’re falling apart.”

“I think it’s because of the changes,” Clark says. “You both have a lot on your plates right now. You have a baby on the way! And a new apartment, and new careers. I mean, no wonder you two get on your nerves sometimes.”

“But we were supposed to be happy! Happy as a clam for fuck’s sake. It’s all we have been waiting for. I don’t get where this tension between us is coming from. I’m so confused.”

“Don’t worry. You two are made for each other.” Bitterness burns Clark’s throat like acid. He does believe what he says. Sometimes he just wishes he was in Diana’s place. “Just take it easy, all right?”

“You know that’s not my style,” Lois chuckles. It’s a good sign. “Give her a call maybe?”

“Oh no, I’m not apologizing first.”

“Lo…”

“I. Am. Not. Apologizing. I’m still pissed I had to reschedule the ultrasound because of her.”

“Duly noted. I’ll make a valiant effort to change the subject now if you’ll allow it.”

“By all means,” she agrees and opens her laptop. Clark tries to keep his cool, but he hasn’t been this excited in a long time. This is the kind of work that keeps him going. Sadly, he didn’t have much of it in his life. He gave this case a lot of thought, bordered on obsession even, but he’d still like to hear her input. “Guess who got invited to Luthor’s private party.” Her jaw drops. He notices that with satisfaction. Just like he anticipated. “No.” She whispers. “Oh yes.”

“How did you get the invitation?!”

“I have my sources.” This is the part he prefers to keep to himself. Frankly, he doesn’t know for sure. The envelope just showed up in his mail. He likes to think he got on the guest list because of the charity campaign – the owner of the eyewear company was supposed to be there as well. However, deep down he has a feeling the Bat had a hand in this. They haven’t contacted in a while. Clark didn’t reveal the entire plan to him, just some bits and pieces. Bat wanted to pressure him into confession but got nothing, then kind of disappeared. Clark never talked to anyone about the asshole on the Internet whom he trusts with his career for reasons he can’t explain, even to himself. The best option is to keep everything hidden inside, just like he always does. “Interesting. Someone from the photoshoot?”

“Can’t confirm, can’t deny.”

“Well damn. Look at you, mister Mysterious. What are you gonna do next?”

“Go to the party. Introduce myself as a young, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed entrepreneur who wants a better world for everyone. Take a few pictures with important people. Get on their good side if possible. Discuss my project briefly and then hopefully schedule a meeting with Luthor.” Clark basically decided he has to take a few lessons from the people at Diana’s welcome home party. “Then I will present him with my very fake research on a genetically modified type of corn that could end world hunger. And then I hope to bribe him to get included in the Lex Corp startup catalogue.”

“I don’t know, Clark,” Lois looks very skeptical. “Why would he trust you? You just published an article that startups in Metropolis are a fraud.”

“It’s part of the game now,” Clark doesn’t lose his enthusiasm. “I will convince him that the ones before me weren’t good enough. Show him where they’ve made a mistake and that I’m not like them. I’m the real deal who will help him build his empire. All I need is to be around some influential people with a lot of money who want to support a good cause – and there’ll be plenty of them at the party. Then, wait, remember what Caldwell said about him?” She nods. “I need to offer him a bribe, that’s a must. I know I’ll have to kiss his ass a lot, I’m prepared for that. Once I have enough evidence, I’ll make this public.”

“That’s too dangerous. He’ll go after you,” she says worriedly. “He can destroy you, Clark. Your plan is essentially to play a player. What makes you think you can fool him?”

“There’s a big risk. I’m aware of that.” Clark has prepared himself to face her doubts. “But if I pull this off, it’s gonna create a chain reaction. People from failed startups will start to speak up. Maybe not all of them, but even one person is enough.”

“No, it’s not,” Lois shakes her head. “You’re biting more than you can chew. I’m not even sure if the reporters’ community would back you up. These methods are questionable. You need to work with police forces if you want this expose to be legitimate.”

“What I’ve described is just the first step.”

“And then what? If he invests in your bullshit company, he will have his eyes on you.”

“Lo, I have to do this.” _I have to do this to feel like I matter_, he thinks_._ “Don’t you see what he’s doing to this city? He’s not even hiding his true motives anymore. He wants Metropolis to be exactly the way he wants it to be. Everyone talks about just one little thing at a time. Startups, gentrification, unfair competition, raising prices…”

“Academics,” Lois interrupts him and sighs. He raises his eyebrow, curious. “What do you mean?”

“Diana… Has a lot of problems at the university. She doesn’t want to worry me but I know. She won’t talk to anyone about it, but… Most of the professors are in Luthor’s pocket. Her ideas get dismissed all the time. They don’t even invite her to meetings. She still haven’t created a program… They don’t give their stamp of approval, ever. What I’m trying to say is her tenure doesn’t mean shit. They treat her as a pretty marketing device. A school mascot. She fights like she always does but the cake has already been split between Luthor’s yes men. She will probably get one class to lure new students to the university and that’s it. Even Mera’s research has been defunded in favor of someone working for Lex Corp.”

“I didn’t know that,” Clark’s throat gets tight. Mera, a biochemist, has been working on an aquatic, short-lived bacteria that could decompose plastic on the surface of the ocean. Not that he asked her about it. “But you’re still right,” Lois looks at him sternly. “These are the small things. Fragments of a bigger piece. Who knows what’s Luthor’s end goal. He needs to be stopped.”

“So… you’re on my side?”

“I’m always on your side, Smallvile.”

“Awesome. Now, what should I wear?”

\---

The night is chilly and sparkly like champagne. Guests arriving on Luthor’s doorstep gladly enter the warmth, even though the interior feels more like a gallery of offensively expensive exhibits rather than a real home. This is different kind of luxury than Lois and Diana’s apartment: where their knickknacks felt personal, his lack human touch; their tiles and furniture were carefully chosen – his look like someone else picked them from a catalog; their space feels lived, inviting – his could be an airport.

So far, Clark is pleased with how things have been going. He has been quickly recognized by a few upper class ladies who took it upon themselves to introduce him to their friends. The drinks started pouring and he could relax a bit more. Claiming a new persona isn’t too bad. Right now, he thinks of himself as someone who wasn’t raised in Kansas by the Kents – he is someone shaped by his biological parents. Still Clark, but a little bolder, more confident, more out there. This helps him focus on the mission. Luthor haven’t shown up yet; probably believes the host should be fashionably late like the Great Gatsby. “So do you want to give up journalism, Clark?” Mrs. Tinsleberry, a socialite who had more than one scandal in her youth, looks at him the way she should be looking at her husband who’s on the other side of the ballroom. “Frankly, I don’t want to. But there are far more important things in this world. I just want to make the most with the time I was given on our good Earth. What’s better than making it a better place?”

“You’re such a good man.” She plays with a diamond cross on her neck. Clark is sure she’s only doing it to make him look at her cleavage. “Oh, look who finally showed up to his own party! Lex! Over here, darling!” Clark holds his breath. This is what he has been waiting for. His chance. That’s all he needs: one chance to impress the man and he’s in. Lex Luthor walks towards them awkwardly. There’s always something awkward about him. Clark could use that to his advantage: bond over being the weird kids at school with big dreams and not that many friends. They’re different, of course, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any similarities between the two of them. He thinks of the best way to greet Luthor as he gets closer and closer, stopping to shake hands with some people…

“Brucie!” Tinsleberry’s high-pitched voice somehow gets even more squeaky. “It’s been too long!”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Clark wants to jump out of his skin at the sound of a familiar baritone. Before he turns his head, he already knows the plan is doomed. Lost. Finished. Done. Completely fucked up. He isn’t sure yet how it will go down, but as he sees the lopsided grin challenging him to do _something,_ he says a little prayer for his own sanity. “Oh my, you know each other, don’t you?” Mrs. Tinsleberry giggles behind her glass, eyes gleaming with delight. “We do.” Bruce agrees with her and dares to look pleased about the situation. “Bruce Wayne meets Clark Kent! I love it!” Luthor’s odd enthusiasm pushes Clark further towards the edge of madness. “Have I interrupted something? Should we leave these two birds alone, mrs. Tinsleberry, hmm?”

“You haven’t, no…” Clark tries to rescue what’s left of his big moment but it’s too late. “I think we should! Play nice, boys!” The woman winks and walks away, holding onto Luthor’s arm. The band plays Sinatra’s “Night and Day.” Bottles of champagne get popped. It seems like a lovely party. Clark could genuinely enjoy the moment if he wasn’t fuming. “Are you okay?” Bruce asks like he means it. That’s the final straw. “You know what?” Clark turns to face him. “No. No, I’m not okay. And it’s all your fault.” He can feel that his smile is very, very ugly. “No one will ever treat me seriously because of you. I’ll always be the guy Bruce Wayne wanted to fuck. I can kiss my career goodbye.” Bruce at least has the decency to keep quiet. This prevents Clark from going off. He watches as Luthor’s assistant takes him to the room in the back where someone in a military uniform is waiting. Getting a second chance at talking to him privately seems impossible. Clark was so close. Then again, he should be used to losing by now.

“Oh gods, I’m so happy to see you.” Diana’s sudden arrival surprises both of them. She’s wearing a dark red dress and an expression that suggests she’s dealing with a massive migraine. “What are you doing here?” Bruce beats Clark to the question. “I’m replacing the old fart Krasinsky from the university’s board,” she explains. “No one had the time and it’d be a bad move for us to skip this party. You two don’t look like you’re having fun.”

“I’m not,” Clark says. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m good.” She sighs. “No. No, I’m not. I’m exhausted.” A waiter walks by with a tray of champagne they all welcome with relief. “Lois is giving me crap since I came back. I don’t know what am I doing wrong.”

“Uh, well,” Clark can feel he’s walking on thin ice but his friends’ problems are a nice distraction from his failure, “I think she’s mad she had to reschedule the ultrasound.” He was right to be worried – Diana’s face goes furious in a span of seconds. “So she tells you about our relationship?!”

“Uh, no, not like everything,” he realizes he has made a huge mistake. Bruce doesn’t look like he’s interested in saving him. “We’re friends, you know, sometimes she just vents but it’s nothing serious…”

“You know what? Fine. This is fine.” Contrary to her words, her face says it’s not fine. “She says I’m the worst, right?”

“No, that’s not…”

“But you know what? She’s no angel. I have no idea what has gotten into her but she’s impossible to talk to. We used to have normal conversations but now, oh no. You wanna know why she canceled the visit? It’s not because I said I can’t make it! No, she asked is Monday okay for me and I said not really, I have a few meetings back to back, next week would be better. I didn’t know she already scheduled the appointment! She didn’t say that! She asked if I’m available and I wasn’t but I would make the time if she just fucking told me!” Clark realizes Bruce has flee without a word. He wishes he could do the same. “And then she’s giving me the silent treatment like I did something terrible and I feel terrible because she looks miserable and I wanna make her feel better! But when I ask if something’s wrong then what do I get? That it’s fine! Instead of talking to me she goes to you! Next time you can tell her…”

“I, uh, I think it’d be better if you two talked to each other…”

“TELL HER she needs to be upfront about what’s bothering her instead of running away and not talking to me like it’s all my fault. If she doesn’t want to have a fight then fine, I won’t give it to her. Let’s see who’s the bigger bitch in this relationship.” She takes her clutch and walks away into the crowd, leaving Clark dazed and confused. That’s definitely not the way he hoped this night would end. He looks around the room: Luthor is nowhere to be seen, Diana has already put on her beauty pageant smile and talks to a woman in a diamond collar, and Bruce… Fuck him. He ruined the night in the first place. Clark downs his champagne and leaves, feeling utterly defeated.

It’s still very early in the night so he makes a stop at the shelter. He needs to take his mind off of things and helping animals always clears his head. Nigel gives him an odd look when he asks if he could clean the cages, in a brand-new suit and tie and high-polish shoes, but doesn’t ask questions. Throughout the tedious task, he thinks about what his next move should be. If he could just waltz straight into Luthor’s office, that would be swell. He could still use the fake startup plan. Perhaps he should make the first steps into actually building one. But that takes time. And money. How is he gonna do it when he needs to work at a coffee shop to pay his bills? He didn’t even pay off his student loans yet and he’s in his thirties. Creating a provocation like that means going into debt. What if it doesn’t pay off? What is he going to do then?

Clark sighs. There’s not much to do in the cat room. It’s still mostly empty after the recent success. Except for Miss Hissy, of course: she seems to be in the same place as the last time. Her big green eyes are just a little sadder, blank. Devoid of happiness like the existence she has received in this world.

Nigel looks even more shocked than when Clark walked in wearing his best clothes and asked for a broom. “You’re sure about that, cowboy? She needs a real cat lover and you strike me as the dog type.”

“I’m sure,” Clark says, filling out the adoption papers. “I’m gonna do my best. I… She deserves a good life.”

“Like they all do. There’s no shame in not handling an animal though. Sometimes that’s just how it is.”

“I know. I just can’t leave her here again.”

“The world could use more poor bastards like you. Come on, I’ll get you everything. Free of charge.” He says when Clark opens up his wallet. “You’ve done more than enough for this place. Come, let us see if she’s gonna eat you alive.”

\---

Miss Hissy doesn’t want to eat Clark alive. In fact, she doesn’t want to have anything to do with him. Once they arrived in the apartment and Clark opened the door of the carrier, she whisked off under the sofa and stayed there, not making a sound. He decided to give her some space, but after he showered, changed his clothes, had dinner and the cat still hasn’t come out of her hiding spot, he started getting worried. Snacks didn’t change Miss Hissy’s mind; Clark knew better than trying to pet her. Resigned, he put bowls of food and water close to the sofa.

He tried to write something but comments on the blog discouraged him.

_Another social climber… Tell us how many dicks you have to suck to get to the top…!!!!_

Clark would love to just go off but he knows it’s a double-edged sword. Instead he deletes the comment. He can’t reply but that doesn’t mean he has to look at it. It’s past midnight and he should go to bed anyway. Just one more beer to wash down everything that happened today. He takes a sip and checks his email. There’s a message without a subject title. Back in the days he would assume it’s spam; times have changed.

_Check your letter box. _

Clark’s brows reach heavens. Well. This is new. Bat didn’t strike him as someone willing to go offline. He’s halfway down the stairs when his common sense comes back. This could be a trap. After all, he has no idea who hides behind a stupid nickname on the Internet. Who knows what’s waiting in the letter box. It could be a bomb. How exactly the Bat got his address? Was he following him? What if Clark is a pawn in a bigger game? There’s only one way to find out.

He holds his breath as his heart is about to jump out of his chest. Nothing happens when he opens the letter box. He takes out a brown envelope. Still nothing. Inside, there’s something that looks like a hard drive. Clark wishes he had another computer – the risk of hacking wouldn’t frighten him as much. He sends a reply:

_What is this? What’s on the drive? Were you following me?_

He paces back and forth in his flat until he realizes it could make Miss Hissy, currently still under the sofa, even more anxious. Sitting in one place has never been this hard. Beer helps a little bit. The hard drive is on the table, innocent yet somehow ominous. Finally, his phone lights up.

_It’s yours. Do whatever needs to be done. _

“Bullshit,” Clark mutters under his breath.

_Just tell me what I’ll find_

Return email couldn’t reach the receiver. Typical. Now he has no choice. He can’t shake off the feeling his walking into a trap. He plugs in the drive before he can change his mind. The laptop doesn’t explode so it’s a win. Contents seem pretty boring at first glance. Clark is almost disappointed. It’s a collection of corporate documents. Deeds. Certificates. Bank records. Finally, he notices Lex Corp’s name, then Atomos. Every subcompany has a separate file. He’s shocked when he finds private data of the owners. Recorded phone calls, messages, credit card details, hell, even nude pictures. It’s not only startups: Clark recognizes a construction company responsible for the work in his area. A bunch of names connected to the University of Metropolis shows up in the accounting spreadsheets. Huge amounts of money have been transferred in exchange for… what? He checks the dates on the Internet, his fingers trembling slightly on the keyboard. New research programs have been announced exactly when the transfers were made. He can’t breathe when he taps on Lois’ number. “Hi.” She sounds groggy. “What happened?”

“Lo, listen to me.” His voice is surprisingly calm compared to how he feels like. “I need you to get me to Perry White as fast as possible.”

“Clark… It’s five in the morning…”

“Lois, this is important! I swear, it’s big, like, we have to get it to print right now.” She sighs heavily. “Can you just tell me what is it about?”

“One word: Luthor.”

“That’s not enough to get me out of bed.”

“Lois, please, you have to trust me. I have a hard drive full of proof for what we have been talking about. Bribery, blackmail, it’s all in there! We have proof Lex controls the city like a mob boss!”

“How the hell did you get that?”

“Doesn’t matter! We need to act! Come on, please, please meet me at the Planet. This case is too big for a blog no one even reads. Please, call Perry and tell him. Please.” For a moment he thinks she fell asleep. “It’ll take me about an hour to get there,” Lois says finally. “Good, great! See you there!”

“I can’t promise anything about Perry. His wife is very adamant when it comes to free Sundays.”

“I know you can convince him. You’re Lois Lane. His favorite child.”

“This better be worth it, Smallville.”

“It is.” He’s so excited he could fly. “Meet you there, bye!” Time doesn’t seem real anymore. Clark packs his stuff, gets dressed in the speed of light and runs downstairs only to discover his bike has been stolen. “No.” He says to himself. He could scream but that wouldn’t help his frustration. “No. No. No way,” he repeats as if it’s a magic spell that could change the situation. He runs to the street but of course there’s no taxis at this ungodly hour; he’s ready to get Uber when an earsplitting sound rummages through the street, followed by a motorbike. It takes Clark a minute to recognize scary biker guy from the coffee shop. “Hey.” The man sounds more ragged than usual. “You’re the barista from the Typewriter?” Clark just nods. “You need a ride?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Where to?”

“The… The Daily Planet.”

“Hop on in, bro. I’m heading to the harbor.” Before Clark can thank him or say no (he hasn’t decided yet), scary biker guy passes him a helmet. He gets on the backseat awkwardly. “Hold on,” the biker says and starts the engine. They drive too fast, too dangerously, but Clark isn’t going to complain – not because he doesn’t mind but he doesn’t want scary biker guy to think he’s a wimp. Nonetheless, his knees are like jelly when they reach the beautiful Daily Planet headquarters. “Thanks,” he says weakly. “Don’t mention it.” It’s only when the man drives away when Clark realizes he didn’t ask him for his name. He owes the guy a coffee.

\---

“Have you two lost your goddamn minds?” Perry is not the type of man to sugarcoat things. “Coming for Lex Luthor with stolen data? That’s your plan?”

“Whistleblowers do that, Perry.” Even in advanced pregnancy – or perhaps because of it – Lois can be fiery. “Don’t get smart with me, Lane! You know what else whistleblowers do? Rot in prison! Who the hell hacked Luthor?”

“I won’t out my sources,” Clark says. “Not without making the case public.”

“That’s very noble of you, pretty face, but won’t save us from getting sued to hell and back.”

“We can leak the data ourselves without a track.” Perry’s remark made Clark angry but he knows he has to keep himself grounded if he wants to achieve the goal. “Then we can publish articles based on that. No one has to know.”

“You think we can cover our tracks, huh? Think again!” The windows wobble from the power of the Daily Planet chief’s voice. “Roaches like you have no place in the shark tank.”

“Look up what’s on the drive,” Clark insists smoothly. “You have to see it for yourself.”

“He’s right,” Lois backs him up. “That’s solid evidence, Perry. Luthor can’t deny the authenticity of it all. Even if he tries, the general attorney will definitely have a look at it. Luthor may have a lot of friends, but he has enemies, too.”

“It’s not happening. Not on my paper.”

“So what are you even doing here?” Clark loses his patience. He really hopes it’s worth it. “Excuse me?” Perry looks ready to slash his throat into pieces. “What are you doing? What’s your job here?”

“If you think that a random rookie can tell me how to do my job…”

“If you don’t speak up, then who will?” It’s Clark’s turn to raise his voice. “That’s what we’re here for. We talk about stuff no one else dares to touch with a tenth-foot pole. We make things public. We shed light on the dark side. We start discussions. We’re not the justice system, but we sure do stand on the side of justice. If we stay silent, what’s left of us? Of journalism? Information means nothing nowadays. More content is produced daily than it used to be in a year. It needs to mean something if we want our job to mean something.”

“So you want the truth and justice for all?” Perry almost laughs. “Wake up, pretty boy. This is America. You have the face for it, now start acting like you belong.”

“I don’t care if I belong because I don’t. I don’t belong to lies and sweeping injustice under the rug. If that’s the reality, I’ll never fit in, like many others I won’t ever be a part of this world. Because there’s a lot of us and you know it. You know people suffer because of bastards like Luthor. How come he can do whatever he wants at the expense of others? What makes him better? These are the questions we should be asking. We should because those people on the streets won’t. That’s our job. To speak for those who don’t have a voice. Luthor can hold us down but if we start, others will follow. And I ask, why do you think it’s not important to give them a voice?” He thinks he over did it and braces for impact. Perry’s silence is even more terrifying than him yelling. Behind his back, the sky is crisp and so blue it almost hurts to look at. “Show me the hard drive,” he says after it feels like a century has passed. Clark smiles.


	8. Chapter 8

When Clark laid down to sleep that day, he didn’t know what to expect in the morning. Blend of excitement, freight and rage made it hard to fall asleep even though he was tired. He rolled on the bed from side to side, wondering what’s going to happen next. Sleep came slowly but relentlessly. The last thing Clark remembered was something small crawling on the bed sheet, then pressing against his feet. Exhaustion was a good thing after all; otherwise he could scare off Miss Hissy with his delight.

Printing house wasn’t too happy with the last minute changes to the Monday’s issue of the Daily Planet, even though it wasn’t the first time and definitely won’t be the last.

Lex Luthor’s office politely asked Perry White to hold the sales when the papers were still warm. They stopped being nice after he told them to go to hell. Still, they didn’t have the means to stop the press.

Some evidence mentioned on the front page could be found on the dark web by noon.

The headline was a hit among the afternoon news sources.

By the end of the day, Ralph Cowan of Atomos posted a very long, bitter admission of guilt on all of his social media.

An official statement from Lex Corp was rather terse. Lex himself has kept quiet.

The bureau of general attorney contacted the Daily Planet for details on the story before lunchtime.

Albert Caldwell happily agreed to be a guest on the Metropolis Evening News to tell the citizens all about his views on Lex Corp business practices.

“It’s a rave, Smallville.” Lois said on the phone from the Daily Planet’s office. The night fell over Metropolis, but the Typewriter didn’t close at the usual time. It’s filled with people who followed Lois, too buzzed about the story to just let it go and call it a night. Clark notices a few officials along with some artsy figures and the Typewriter’s regulars, including scary biker guy enjoying his free coffee week – Arthur, as he just found out. He’s happy to discuss the case with everyone asking, careful to keep crucial details to himself. Maybe one of them is the Bat? He has been wondering about it for a while and even had a suspicion Arthur could be the one, but that just felt wrong. The coffee machine is going crazy. “We’re gonna have to call the serviceman tomorrow,” Barry says, barely avoiding a third degree burn. Clark spots Iris by the counter. It’s good to feel like he’s equal to the people in the room. “Hi, what can I get for you?” He smiles. “Some of that reporter’s magic! Congratulations. I think it’s the biggest story of the decade.”

“Thanks.”

“Hello!” Barry arrives by his side like a ghost. “Hello, hi, I’m Barry, Clark’s best friend, have we met? I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Iris looks a little taken aback. “Of course not, no, I’d definitely remember your name, like, totally, would never forget.” Barry’s word vomit means he needs some guidance. “Iris, meet my friend Barry.” Clark saves him just in time. “Barry, meet Iris.”

“Iris!” Barry shouts excitedly and shakes her hand. “Like the flower. Pretty. And the rainbow. I think it’s Greek for rainbow. Diana told me. I think. Pretty. I mean, rainbows are pretty. And the flower. That’s what I mean.”

“He’s the friend from Central City I mentioned last time,” Clark prompts politely, hoping he will stop the Barry Allen trainwreck. “Aww, really?!” Thankfully, that makes Iris genuinely happy. “I haven’t met anyone from Central City in Metropolis before!”

“Well, it’s your lucky day!” It shouldn’t be possible but Barry’s heart-eyes grew ten times. “Central City for life!”

“Hey Barry, could you take the lady’s order? I need to talk to Lo about supplies.” Clark feels it’s about time for him to disappear and let the universe do its work. He finds Lois in the far corner of the café, close to the backdoor. “Hey, you’re good?”

“I’m great.” She says; it sounds true even though she looks exhausted. “Are you up for some interviews? People are asking me about you all day.”

“I’d rather not. Things tend to get worse for me when I show my face.”

“Suit yourself. I think it’s better to lay low anyway. Whatever we do, Luthor’s gonna give us trouble.”

“And we will face him with an open visor,” he says, smiling. They observe the crowd for a minute. The Typewriter has never felt so alive. Vic sneaked in a few bottles of somethig stronger with Mera’s quiet blessing. The music doesn’t play but the room is loud with voices and footsteps. There’s something in the air, like a first whiff of rain after a long drought. “That’s what I want,” Lois says quietly to Clark which leaves him confused. “What do you mean?”

“I love that job. I love being a reporter.” He notices, shocked, that there are tears in her eyes. “I’m not a coffee shop owner, Clark. It’s been wonderful but it’s killing me.”

“Lo…”

“I don’t want a chain. I don’t really want the Typewriter either. Don’t get me wrong, you guys are awesome and you’re doing such a great job. I’m grateful because you run this place with me. It’s horrible but I’d give it up to work at the Planet again.” She breathes like she has been under water and just reached the surface. “I’m a selfish bitch but that’s the truth.”

“You can always go back…”

“But I wanted to have more time for this little bean,” she touches her bump with such tenderness it makes Clark's heart break. “Everything I do is for my baby. I want to give him or her everything. You know, peace and quiet, stability, nice little routine to make them feel safe. But I make myself miserable. I lash out on Diana when it’s not her fault. It’s me. I’m not happy. I try to be but that’s not who I am. I don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t think the baby wants to have a mother who’s miserable.” He says quietly, careful to not hurt her feelings. “I’m scared I’m gonna be a terrible mother if I go back to work. You know how it is. It’s not a nine to five job. And I’ve never wanted to be a weekend parent. Diana is the same.”

“You deal in absolutes when you could look for balance. You’re not alone, you have Diana. The baby has her, too. Together you can make this work. But you have to be honest with her.”

“I feel like a fraud. I mean, we’ve made all these plans and now what, I just change my mind?”

“I’m sure she’ll understand. Give her some credit. She cares for you and wants you to be happy.” He realizes Diana is nowhere to be seen. “Did you have a fight again?”

“Yes.” Lois admits. “When I left in the morning to meet you. She said Sunday was supposed to be for us and I’m the one who’s breaking us apart. She said… We both said some stuff. Too much. She went to Key West to visit her mother.”

“Just talk to her.” Clark tries to be as gentle as possible. “She loves you. You’re just a little lost. You’re gonna be fine if you two are honest with each other.” Lois nods her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “You’re right.”

“Want some more decaf?”

“Jesus, no, enough of that crap. Water will be better.”

He brings her a glass when his mom calls. Clark takes the call outside, away from the madding crowd. “Hey Ma, you’ve probably heard the good news already.” He paces around the backstreet, his heart full when he tells her all about the article – it’s been a while since he gave her something she could be proud of. But his story meets with tension instead of praise, and where there should be celebration, he receives wormwood. He stops pacing and just listens, sinking into the asphalt under the weight of his guilt that gets heavier the longer Ma talks on the phone.

Clark comes back to the bright inside of the Typewriter feeling like a different person than he was just moments ago. He avoids everyone and looks for Lois. “Hey,” he says, trying to sound normal. “I need to take a few days off if that’s okay.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“One more thing. Can I borrow your car? I really have to go home.”

“Did something happen?” She looks worried. He didn’t want to but he tells her everything right away. Finances were always a problem for the Kents, that much he knew. What he didn’t know was that Ma’s debt was getting worse and now it’s really bad. So bad she had to pledge the house. She has failed to pay the installments on time. “Why she didn’t say anything?” Lois cries. “She didn’t want me to worry.” Clark can taste the bitterness in his mouth. “I just have to go there and see what I can do.”

He doesn’t waste any time after Lois gave him the keys. Packing goes smoothly except for Miss Hissy who hates the carrier more than she hates Clark. “I know, I know honey.” He tries to calm her down without losing any limbs in the process. “It won’t take long. I promise. You’re gonna see the farm, you know? It’s beautiful.” The thought of gold and blue landscape somehow makes him even sadder. “I used to ran away whenever I could but now I think Pa was right, you know? Why leave when everything we need is right there, in Kansas.” He fools himself it’s not too late but deep down he’s sure everything is already lost. It wouldn’t be if he wasn’t so selfish all the time, so focused on stuff that doesn’t matter in the long run. He should’ve called Ma more often and ask her real questions instead of talking about himself all the time. It was always his career and his feelings and his errands when Ma was struggling to make the ends meet. She loves him too much to make him leave his life in the city, the life he didn’t even like that much, and come back to help. That’s the worst part of it all.

Some of these feelings must have made him sloppy. The cat carrier is the last thing he gets into the car. He doesn’t understand how and when – he just sees Miss Hissy running into the streets. “No! Come back!” He darts right after her but she’s surprisingly fast. He can’t see her anywhere when he gets around the corner. Morning drizzle clouds his glasses. “Miss Hissy!” The hood is quiet, just getting ready for the usual morning havoc. No one’s on the sidewalk except for Clark who grows more and more anxious. How is it possible that his moment of triumph got crashed and burned so quickly. How small and unimportant it is. He is? He doesn’t even want to examine that right now. Nigel was right: poor Miss Hissy should have gone to someone else, someone who isn’t that reckless, absent-minded, irresponsible…

“Clark.” His name sounds oddly intimate on the lips of a man standing behind him. His black trench coat almost touches the ground. He holds Miss Hissy in his arms. “Oh thank goodness!” Clark runs to him, so relieved to see the runaway that he doesn’t recognize the man at first. It’s only when he takes the cat away from him and spit outs a frantic thanks, he notices the very expensive tie, defined chin, the pleasant smell of cologne and that’s enough to make his brain freeze. “Oh. Uuuh. Bruce. Hi.”

“Hi.” They stand in the rain until Miss Hissy express her displeasure with the current situation. “Sorry, I need to take her… Get her to the, uh…” Clark has lost his train of thought the second he realized who he’s facing; holding a meowing, scratching animal that wants to break free makes it even harder to talk like normal people do. What is normal anyway? He isn’t sure anymore. Once Miss Hissy is safe and sound in the carrier (and a little sorrowful on top of that), he takes a deep breath. “Thank you again,” he says. “I don’t know if I could catch that scoundrel by myself.”

“You’re welcome.” In the grayish-mauve Metropolis morning, Bruce looks like a film noir character: a private detective on the hunt or a gangster who has been betrayed by his fellows and now is out for blood. Long shadows mark his under-eye area and his hair seems more silver than it was just days before. His impressive built stands out from the prim and proper landscape, like he’s a piece of collage that has been cut from different book than everything else in the picture. “So… What are you doing here?” That’s the most rational question Clark can think of. “I wanted to see you.” He wasn’t prepared for Bruce’s upfront answer. “Lois told me you were going back home.”

“True, it’s true,” he confirms, looking at his feet. “I have to. Family issues.”

“She said you may never come back.”

“She really said that?” He hums, not knowing what he’s feeling right now. “Well, she’s not wrong. I don’t know what I’m gonna do yet. There are some problems… with our farm in Kansas. My mother needs help. I have to help her. I’m the only child she has, you know. I’m not sure how long it’s gonna take me to make things right.”

“I see.” Bruce keeps still. “Congratulations on the article by the way.”

“Thanks.” Clark smiles because even though his life is slowly turning to shit right now, he’s still pretty proud of what he has done. “Did the hard drive give you any trouble?” Bruce asks. “No. If I’m being honest, I expected the files to be coded but they weren’t. I mean, it took some time to convince Perry White to look at them but…” He almost bites his tongue when the realization hits. His vision goes blurry, like he has been hit in the head with a sledgehammer. “Motherfucker.”

“At your service.” Bruce Wayne smirks. Only one corner of his mouth goes up. “At a party.” Clark recalls everything that happened. “When Diana was screaming at me. You just disappeared.”

“Don’t remember,” Bruce lies casually. “Oh, but I do. You did. And you knew what I wanted to do… You… It was _you_ all this time…” Clark hides his face in his hands as if he could wake up from a nightmare. “Why did you do that? I had everything planned.”

“It wouldn’t work.” All of a sudden, Bruce sounds very serious. “Luthor would look right through you.”

“You don’t know that!” Clark’s anger from that night comes back to him with double force. “And even if it wouldn’t work, then what? Who are you to decide what to do? It was my plan, my case. You took that chance away from me and humiliated me in front of Luthor. I was ready to face the consequences. Maybe I’m not the richest man in the world and I can’t skirt around law like you do, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get the job done. So please, tell me why the hell did you interrupt when you helped me get there?” It takes a few moments for Bruce to reply. “I couldn’t let him destroy you.” His posture unveils inner vulnerability. “You’re right. You could get the job done. But if there was even a one percent chance of failure, Luthor would ruin your life or even kill you. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Why?” Clark asks, feeling dizzy. “Because…” Bruce looks at him, really looks at him with his October eyes, glowing and nostalgic. “Because people like you shouldn’t lie. You should always be on the side of the truth. Because you weren’t made to live in the shadows. Because I… I know you hate me, all right? After everything that happened, it’s understandable you don’t want anything to do with me…”

“You like me,” Clark whispers. Crimson blush shows up on Bruce’s sunken cheeks; a little color in the face suits him well. “I don’t… not…” He stammers, but Clark doesn’t allow him to find the right words: he makes the first step on a new, undiscovered path and closes the distance between them. His lips hover against Bruce’s chin for a second, then he tips his head up just a little bit to get a better angle. It’s still not enough, frustratingly so, and that makes him grab Bruce by the lapel of his coat and drag him even closer. Their lips are on the same trajectory now. Clark doesn’t dare to breathe, to think. The details of Bruce’s neatly shaven chin is the last thing he sees before they finally meet soul to soul. Bruce stands still like he’s scared it’s just a dream that’s going to vanish at the slightest disturbance. Clark presses harder, feeling the dry warmth of his lips, wanting more with his entire heart that’s beating like church bells. Bruce responds to that and lets him in. Clark gladly accepts the invitation; he wastes no time and bites into the richness of Bruce’s mouth, bountiful like Autumn harvest.

The cat’s shrieking scream is what brings them back from heavens above. “Sorry.” Clark mumbles and fixes his slightly crooked glasses. “She really hates the carrier.” Bruce just nods. Clark could swear he can feel the man’s heartbeat as clear as his own. “I need to go. But I’ll come back. It’s a promise.”

“And you always keep your promises, don’t you?” Bruce smirks again. This time there’s something real behind it. “I try. But now I need to see my mother.”

“Go.” Bruce gives him a wet smooch that makes Clark's left foot go up. “And then come back to me.”

\---

In a weird sort of way, it was the longest and the shortest drive to Kansas in Clark’s life. The memory of Bruce’s lips caressing his felt like an experience from a different life, a haunting dream bringing memories he couldn’t possibly have, a home that has never been but his soul yearned for it nonetheless. It was perfect. It was inadequate. Clark reached his home town shaking. Oddly enough, Miss Hissy’s whining had nothing to do with it.

Ma runs to him as soon as he parks the car in the front yard. She looks incredibly happy. “My baby boy is here!” Clark gives her a good hug. The guilt crushes him one more time. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Ma.” He apologizes. “If I could turn back time, I would. I’ll do anything I can do make things better.”

“Funny you should say that.” She looks at him with a confused smile. “I was on the phone minutes before I saw your car. It was from the bank.”

“What did they say? Were they trying to scare you?”

“No, calm down. I’m all right. It’s just… It was the director of the bank who called me, can you believe that? That’s weird, right?”

“Well, what did he want?”

“He said…He said that my debt is no longer valid. I didn’t understand so he explained… Basically, I don’t owe them any money. I asked how is that possible and he started saying something about interest rates and investment in American agriculture… I still don’t get it but the farm is mine. All of it. The house and the field. I don’t get it, Clark. I’m happy but I don’t get it.” It’s hard to say which one of them is more shocked. They’re having dinner when it dawns on Clark there’s someone he should talk to. He sends a text:

_How did you get the house back from the bank?_

The reply reaches him late at night, when he’s lying in bed with reluctant Miss Hissy.

_I bought the bank._


	9. Chapter 9

“I can’t believe it.” Kara sounds flabbergasted. “It’s all true.” Clark is enjoying a nice evening on the farm with a cup of hot cocoa. He talks on the phone while watching over Miss Hissy; she is still a little apprehensive about the outdoors, but she already proved she’s a natural born predator by presenting Ma with a dead mouse. He just summarized the entire story of mysterious hackers that turn out to be billionaires, journalism, investigations, and runaway cats to Kara. “Pardon my French but you’re the luckiest bitch on Earth.”

“I’m not even mad,” he says, because he really isn’t. “So when you’re going to see him again?”

“I’m glad you ask. He invited me over to Gotham on Sunday for a picnic.”

“Is that a code for fucking like bunny rabbits?”

“No, it is what it is. We want to get to know each other a little better. Me especially. I need to know who he is without the press coverage.”

“What for? You already know he isn’t that bad. By the way…”

“Go on, have your I told you so moment.”

“Thanks for stealing my thunder but yeah, I TOLD YOU SO CLARK KENT. You should’ve trusted me.”

“Next time a rich guy with questionable hobbies orders coffee at my shop, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that. Speaking of coffee, what’s gonna happen to the Typewriter? Is it gonna shut down forever?”

“I’m afraid so.” He sighs. “Lois and Diana had a serious talk. Neither of them is happy with their career choices. Lois really wants to go back to journalism and Diana wants to travel the world. Still, they’re not fighting anymore so that’s good.”

“Whatever happens, you have to come back to Metropolis. Come get your man. Let love win.”

“I don’t know… The sky looks better over here, you know?” He says jokingly. However, he does feel melancholic. Last night they looked at the stars with Ma and he remembered everything he loved most about living in the country. “Don’t you dare, Kent,” she threatens. “I need to believe love is real and you’re the only one who can prove me right.”

“Wow, thanks for not putting any pressure on me or anything.”

“I’m dead serious. If you don’t go to Gotham, I will kick your ass to the other side of the harbor.”

“No need to. I’ll go. I owe him that, really. But I’m gonna stay in Smallville for a few more days. I think… I think I’m part of the reason why Lois and Diana were fighting.”

“Diana knows about your pathetic crush?”

“Yeah. Not much but she knows. I think it will be better for all of us if I stay out of the picture for a while. Not to mention Luthor’s arrest. I really should lay low now.”

“Sounds good to me. Listen, I gotta go. Call me when you’re back in Metropolis so we can talk about boys over drinks.”

“Can’t wait. Bye.” A new message waits for him when he ends the phone call. After everything that went down in the past few days, he’s ready for anything… Except for what he actually gets: a picture from Lois. It’s black and white. Blurry. He has no idea what is he looking at until he checks the caption:

_It’s a boy!!! _ _❤_

He smiles from ear to ear. The baby may look like a shapeless blob, but he’s sure it’s going to be the happiest child on Earth. The sun goes down when he looks at the horizon, painting the sky in pale lavender and pink. Crickets start their concert. Spring is here. Clark gulps down the fresh air. It’s time to let himself be happy.

\---

It’s not going to be anything extravagant, Bruce said. Wear something casual, he said. Clark was a fool to listen. Now he looks like an idiot in his jeans and flannel while Bruce waits for him by the harbor, dressed like a model from Ralph Lauren men’s catalog and leaning against a vintage Aston Martin. He looks like a movie. “Hi.” He greets Clark and takes off his aviators. “How do you like Gotham so far?”

“I’m underwhelmed.” Turning the situation into a joke makes him feel a little less out of place. “Vic promised me mole people spotting.”

“That was an over promise on Vic’s part. Everyone knows mole people never leave the underground.”

“I thought they lived in the sewers?”

“Of course not, silly.” Bruce opens the passenger door and invites Clark to take a seat. “That’s where the Killer Croc lives.”

“Oh. Ha, ha. Good one.”

“I’m serious. Don’t look at me like that.” Bruce smirks. “You don’t have to worry. He doesn’t like the sunlight.” As they drive to the park, Clark slowly realizes Gotham is very different from what he have imagined. It’s much older than he expected and has the vibe of European cities. The skyscrapers are just as high as they are in Metropolis, but they’ve been built like cathedrals. The weather is nice so he can have a look at the impressive details. “The architects sure loved gargoyles,” he says. “I bet. There’s over a thousand of them in Gotham.”

“Have you ever wanted to leave?” Clark asks when they stop at red light, eager to find some sort of connection. “No. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.”

“Why is that?” Bruce doesn’t answer. Instead, he points out the name of the street: Wayne Avenue. “Oh.” So much for a connection. “My family built this city. They’ve won the land in a private war with the Dutch colonizers. They were hunters. Pelts and furs is what started everything. Then came trade, oil, railway. And now it’s Gotham.”

“So you like to fight people on the Internet because it’s in your blood?” Clark can’t stop himself from teasing. Bruce doesn’t seem offended. For now. “I hope you know it’s just a small part of what I do. I can’t do a lot of things as Bruce Wayne. My nights tend to be much more interesting than my days.”

“Hitting on journalists is the regular part of your nightly activities?” Bruce smiles somewhat devilishly. “No. I’ve made the exception just for you.” Clark is close to blushing, so he looks outside the window and doesn’t say anything until they reach the park named after Thaddeus H. Wayne. “Someone you know?” Clark asks and points at the plaque. “Great-great-grandfather I believe.” Bruce picks up a picnic basket from the trunk. “I’ve been told he was kind of an asshole.” Clark wants to make a remark about how it runs in the family but keeps it to himself. Teasing is one thing, being rude another one.

The park isn’t too crowded even though it looks wonderful. What gets Clark’s attention are the trees: they are oddly tall for a cityscape. “Those trees were a part of the old wilderness,” Bruce says. “The part that wasn’t chopped down at least. My ancestors were convinced the spirits of the forest wouldn’t like it. Celtic beliefs, I think.” 

“I see.” On the ferry, Clark promised himself he wouldn’t get intimidated. That’s a fail. “Is your family religious?” Bruce asks as they walk up on a hill. “My mother is. You know how it is in small towns. Without a church, there’s no sense of community.”

“What about your father?”

“He wasn’t a fan of the church from what I remember. We buried him on a Catholic cemetery anyway.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. Old wounds.” They don’t talk about anything in particular as Bruce lays down a plush blanket on the grass. Contents of the picnic basket are like a feast at a luxurious restaurant: an array of homemade dips, freshly baked baguettes, stuffed focaccia, mini crab chops, prawn and avocado rolls, kale salad, bite-sized quiche with beets and feta cheese, fresh fruits, tiny muffins and apricot cheesecake – everything served on finest porcelain. What really surprises Clark is an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne and a few smaller cocktail bottles. “Would it be silly to ask if you’ve made it all by yourself?” Clark asks and takes a glass of champagne from Bruce’s hand. Their fingers touch for a second. That’s enough to send shivers down his spine. “My butler helped.” Clark chokes on the first sip. “Yes, I do have a butler but I don’t like to call him that. His name is Alfred. He’s like family to me.”

“Do you have any family left in Gotham?”

“Some cousins. We don’t really keep in touch.” Bruce raises his glass. “To accidental encounters.”

“Cheers,” Clark laughs as the glasses clink gently. “I have been wondering… What were you doing in Metropolis that day?” Bruce shrugs. “Business as usual. I got pissed off and decided to have a walk. If I didn’t do that, Luthor could have his stupid mug broken.”

“You’ve met with Luthor?”

“Yeah, and he lied to me. I’m used to it but something about that guy…” Bruce sighs, visibly frustrated. “I hate that kid.”

“Do you think he’s gonna walk away scot-free?” Clark can’t wait any longer and stuffs his face with food. “Not this time. He has made a lot of powerful enemies. Everyone was just waiting for the right time to finish him. Now there’s a chance. All thanks to you.” This time Clark blushes for real. “I like your new glasses by the way.”

“Thank you.” His face feels hot. “Your campaign was great. Very classy. Have you modeled before?”

“No, no. And I’ll never do it again. Never ever.”

“Too much attention?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Clark’s entire body is burning. He didn’t think that Bruce could look up his pictures online just like he did when they’ve met. That reminds him of something. “Can I ask you a sensitive question?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you have kids?”

“No. I’m guessing you’ve read about Selina and I.” Even Clark’s ears are red now. He nods and chews on a delicious crab chop. “Her daughter isn’t mine. Helena’s father was an undercover cop who got killed in action. That’s why we played the game with the tabloids. We wanted to protect the poor girl from the revenge of the gang her father dismantled. They’re both safe now if you’re wondering. I took care of that.” They eat in silence, admiring the view. From this point, Gotham doesn’t seem so bad at all. “Why did you leave Kansas?” Bruce asks, his back supported by a tree. “Is being a farmer that bad?”

“It’s not bad,” Clark sighs. “It’s just not for me. I don’t know how to explain it. I was a child when I realized there’s this huge world outside of Kansas. I wanted to see it. And maybe help people if possible.”

“That’s why you became a reporter?”

“You could say that. I’ve always… I don’t like it when good people suffer and no one cares, you know? Someone should care.”

“Little Clark, an idealist.” Bruce isn’t mocking him. “You could say that. I wanted to be a fiction writer at first.”

“What happened to that?”

“I’ve read Capote’s _In Cold Blood_ and realized life is more interesting than fiction. I started reading that book because it’s about Kansas. When I finished, I was a different person. What’s so funny?” He asks when he sees a smile showing on Bruce’s face. “Nothing. It’s just that… I never really liked reading fiction. Based on true events is more my thing.”

“Cool. We have something in common.”

“That deserves a toast.” A pleasant breeze from the sea makes the champagne taste even sweeter. “I never thanked you for the house.”

“Don’t mention it. I don’t like it when good people suffer. How’s the cat doing?”

“Miss Hissy is doing great. She loves the farm life. Don’t get the wrong idea, she’s still a feral beast, but now she’s happy with her territory. Ma calls her Missy.”

“Missy. If I could ever choose a name for a farm cat, that’d be it.” Clark doesn’t know when they got closer to each other – they’re sitting side by side, arms touching. They’re a bit tentative; that’s not what he expected. “What’s your favorite color?” He asks with a goofy smile. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious.”

“I don’t think I have one.”

“Come on! Everyone has a favorite color.”

“I don’t know.” Bruce looks up as if the sky could provide him with an answer. “Black.”

“Good pick. Suits you well.”

“What’s yours?” Bruce’s mouth is suddenly very close to Clark’s. The ghost of their first kiss dances in the wind. “Blue,” Clark answers. “Like your eyes. Cute.”

“A lot of things are blue. The sky. The ocean. My favorite flavor of jawbreakers…” He pauses when Bruce lifts up his glasses. His heart skips a beat. “One thing I couldn’t get out of my head,” Bruce says, studying him intensely. “I could swear there’s something odd about your eyes. It doesn’t show up in pictures. I can’t see it in person when you have your glasses on. Now I see it. A tiny brown spot in the blue. Sectoral heterochromia.” The only measurement of time is their breathing. Clark gasps, caught in awe of what a very, very handsome man is about to kiss him.

Loud ringtone ruins the moment like a car crash. “Excuse me.” Bruce looks really mad. For some unknown reason, his angry grimace makes Clark laugh. He doesn’t feel like laughing when the phone call takes longer than expected. He eats and drinks while Bruce paces nearby. Finally, he ends the call. “I have bad news. I need to get to the office.”

“Is it about your nightly activities?”

“No. Daily. I do run my own company.”

“No, no, it’s understood. I just… never mind. I wanted to be cheeky I guess.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I had other plans for us.”

“It’s all right. You gotta do something for me though.”

“What is it?” Clark gathers all of his bravery, brings Bruce closer and kisses him. It’s just as good as he remembered. Judging by the surprised moan, Bruce likes it as much as he does. “Come to Metropolis when you have the time.”

“I’ll make the time.” Bruce’s smirk is more than a promise.


	10. Chapter 10

A pleasant type of uncertainty is the lead motive of Clark’s life after the date. It feels sour when he’s full of doubt and sweet when those doubts turn out to be nothing more than his fears manifesting. Last night he thought he made a complete fool of himself after he called Bruce to say goodnight and he didn’t pick up. Clark was ready to erase the proof of his existence from the face of Earth and run to live in the mountains just to have Bruce calling him back ten minutes later. They’re not dancing around each other, not exactly, they’re pretty upfront with their intensions. A healthy dose of timidness never hurt a budding relationship. Everything seems to be in order. _But what if it all goes to hell,_ Clark thinks and runs even faster through the park in hopes it will soothe his anxiety.

If he’s honest with himself, he is terrified of what can happen. Too many good things came too quickly. He isn’t used to getting what he wants. People who claimed to act this way throughout their lives felt like liars to him. It’s just not possible; no one has that much control over their lives to make their deepest desires come true. That’s not what Clark experienced until now, when everything seems to be going so well. He should be happy and enjoy it but all he can think about is how this is going to end soon. Better be prepared for the worst scenario than get burned.

Especially Bruce. He’s too good to be true. Clark has been out of the dating loop for so long he doesn’t know how to act. One thing he’s sure of: he doesn’t want to suffer like he suffered with Lois – he just won’t handle another heartbreak without falling apart.

He speeds up even more, his footsteps echoing among the trees. He can’t wait until they have sex and dreads it at the same time. It’s been a very long break. Is it possible to forget how to do it? He sure feels like it. Going to bed with Bruce Wayne feels more and more like a test he has to pass. Clark would love to just let it go and treat him like any other guy but this is _different _– the situation, the circumstances, and the guy in question.

He finally stops to catch a breath. Perhaps he should make the first move, invite Bruce over and just get on with it. Their first date was so chaste it’d be a natural progression of the dating thing, but maybe Bruce has something planned already and maybe he doesn’t like when his dates get pushy and… “I’m insane,” Clark pants. The wind that shakes the treetops seems to agree. 

\---

“You’re overthinking!” Barry says when they get the Typewriter ready later in the morning. “I know.” Clark doesn’t even dare to dispute that. The day starts like every other day: the sun is shining, customers are demanding, and it’s all normal and boring up until Clark looks out the window sometime around noon. “Is that Mera with the scary biker guy?!”

“Hell yeah! They hit it off!” Now they both observe as Mera gets off of a black Harley Davidson and talks to the man with long hair, all smiley and flirty. The biker has his huge hands placed firmly around her waist. “What, you knew about this?” Clark asks. “Well sir, while you were taking down one of the most powerful men in the world, I’ve done something even more important.” Barry puts both hands on his hips. “I’ve helped these two find love. Arthur was coming here only to ask her out but he was too shy to do it, the poor thing.”

“He was too shy?...”

“Yeah! Can you imagine? He told me he was too terrified to ask her out!” Clark can’t, honestly, but Mera walks in and he’s too scared to make a comment on what they just witnessed. Maybe Arthur did have a point. “Hi boys. What’s up?”

“Not much, chief,” Barry smiles. “Why didn’t you invite Arthur for coffee?”

“We already had coffee.” She says with a smug grin and goes to the backroom. “At my place.” Barry whistles as she shuts the door. “See? This is how you do it,” he tells Clark excitedly. “No overthinking, just go with the flow and jump on the Harley Davidson.”

“Sure.” Clark could ask about Iris, but he prefers to end the conversation before it moves to the area he doesn’t want to discuss. More customers pour in so it’s not that hard. He cleans the tables when a text pops up. His knees get a little weak when he sees Bruce’s name on the screen.

_At the worst meeting I’ve ever been to in my god damn life. What are you up to?_

It’s so casual Clark feels bad for how anxious he felt about them dating.

_Wanna switch and clean the shop? _

_I wouldn’t mind. I could die right now. _

_It’s gonna be over soon, right?_

_I wish. I’m having meetings all day. Do you want to grab drinks in the evening?_

Evening. Drinks. Drinks, not dinner. Not going to the movies or any of that shit. It can only mean one thing. Clark is sweating profusely when he hits send.

_Are u in Metropolis?_

_Yeah. I thought we could meet at the Churchill at 7?_

Churchill is a very prestigious bar were politicians, businessmen and celebrities mingle in private. Mere mortals are stopped at the doors by very mean security. No wonder Bruce would pick this place for a date. Clark’s heart beats like crazy. Drinks at a bar are different from a trip to Gotham. It’s different from having a picnic in a park. The latter can have many endings; drinks imply there’s only one possible option for how the evening is going to end.

_Yeah, 7 sounds great. _

_Good. I’ll see you there._

Clark goes through the rest of his shift like he’s high. All he can think of is that tonight he is going to have sex with none other than Bruce Wayne himself. “Hey, you ok?” Mera asks him when he overheats the milk for the fourth time. “No, no, I’m fine, don’t worry.”

“Do you wanna go home? It’s a slow day. We can manage if you’re unwell.” Looks like Mera is in good mood. He’d be stupid if he didn’t take advantage of that. “You know what, I’d like that actually. Thanks!” Clark says, relieved, and runs to change from his work shirt.

\---

The first step is to make the apartment squeaky clean. Clark can’t be sure if Bruce is going to invite him to the hotel but truth be told, he doesn’t even want to go to a hotel – someone’s definitely going to see them there. He has had enough of media attention, and they shouldn’t go public like that, in the middle of _the date._ If things get steamy, he’s going to be the man and invite Bruce over to his place. Yes. He decided.

Firstly, he bought what feels like a lifetime supply of cleaning products on his way from work. Every corner of his apartment gets dusted, washed, mopped, scraped to the straight-from-the-store condition. The place haven’t look this good since the day Clark moved in. He even makes another run to the corner shop to get a spare toothbrush in case Bruce wants to spend the night; it may not happen, but Clark prefers to be safe than sorry. Changing sheets makes his imagination run wild. They’re gonna be here undressed, skin on skin... God, he wants this. He fears this. He has no idea how he’s going to work this out. The best he can do is to stick to the plan.

Speaking of the plan: the second step is to get_ himself _squeaky clean. After a long shower, Clark puts some more effort than usual into styling his hair. That makes him think of the rest of the hair on his body – specifically about the private parts that could use some trimming. He clips his nails, shaves, and spends another hour thinking of what to wear, feeling more and more ridiculous with every moment. He picks up a shirt and a matching tie so he can look presentable among the snobby crowd but not like he tried too hard.

The third step is to skip lunch; they didn’t discuss it yet but Clark is open to everything.

The fourth step, probably the most embarrassing of all, is to visit a drugstore and buy condoms like the grown man he is. Preferably without going red in the face. The alley seems too long and too wide. The amount of products available is overwhelming. He should’ve ordered this stuff online. Then again, he’s in his thirties for crying out loud – buying condoms shouldn’t be this hard at this point. It’s stupid but he feels like the entire world knows he’s going to have sex. People in the line seem to look at him like he has a piece of paper on his back that says ”I’ll fuck Bruce Wayne tonight.” It’s all in his head, he realizes that, and yet he chooses the self-service register to avoid cashier’s all-knowing gaze.

By the time he arrives at the Churchill, he’s an anxious, trembling mess, but at least he looks good. Bouncers study him from head to toe. “Name?” One of them barks. “Kent. Clark Kent.” The man checks the list and nods. Another one opens the door. The inside is so dark he can barely see the faces of people he passes by. Wallpaper seems to have the color of clotted blood. He expected tables but there are none, just cocktails stools and booths. It’s clear the place was meant for walking around, talking to more person than just one. The bar is very long, the longest Clark has ever seen. He notices there’s some extra space above it where a few of the guests are watching the room with interest. “Clark!” Fortunately, Bruce is already here, waiting by the bar. Clark goes to him with a sense of relief. “You’re early,” Bruce notices. He’s smiling, his eyes twinkling in the dark. “I couldn’t wait to come,” Clark says before he can think and regrets it dearly. Bruce doesn’t seem to care about the double entendre or perhaps he’s just pretending: whatever the case may be, if Clark wants to get laid, he really should stop acting like he’s in tenth grade. Bruce calls for the bartender. “What do you want to drink?”

“Uh, I don’t know. What are you having?”

“Scotch and soda.”

“Same.” Clark won’t even try to pretend his palate is sophisticated. He takes another look around the room. From the safety of the well-lit bar, he recognizes some people. “Are you the Kent guy?” A very drunk man comes over. When Clark nods, he gets a hard pat on the back. “Good job on that little fucker! Keep it up!” The man laughs and merrily walks away. “I believe this is how Gregory says congratulations,” Bruce grins. “Who was that?”

“Gregory Hill, chairman of the West Coast Trade Affiliates. Made millions on plastic containers.”

“Damn. Wish I thought of that.”

“Farmer’s sons have better things to do.” Their drinks arrive in record timing. “To your first visit at the Churchill.” Bruce raises his glass. “To a beautiful night.” Clark replies and enjoys the look on Bruce’s face. The place is so crowded they have to be very close to have a proper conversation. Despite the cigarette smoke and the odor of alcohol, Clark can tell Bruce smells really, _really_ good. His suit is all business, with a fancy tie pin and expensive watch to match. Perfection. Sleek and elegant like a sports car. Clark feels an overwhelming need to rough him up a bit. “How was your meeting?” He asks when the staring becomes too intense. “Fuck, don’t even remind me.” Bruce takes a bold swipe and gulps his drink. “All the Luthor’s dogs are let lose. Looks like if he’s going down, he’s gonna take everyone with him.”

“Are you in danger?”

“No. Not me. But expect a few more plot twists by the end of the month.”

“Is the Bat still at work?” Bruce has a weird smirk on his face. He whispers to Clark’s ear: “I don’t know what are you talking about it.”

“That’s a shame. I was hoping you could explain something that has been bugging me.”

“What is it?” Clark has to hold back laughter. “Is it about the baseball bat or the flying rodent?” For a moment he thinks he crossed a line and is ready to apologize, but then Bruce shows two fingers, like a peace sign. The second option then. “Why do you think that?”

“There’s a story about a broken window on a gloomy night, or so I’ve been told.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

“That’s for another time.” Bruce purrs next to Clark’s neck. One pull at the tie and they could be kissing right here, audience be damned. “There’s something I’d like to know as well. You don’t mind me asking?” At that moment, with Clark’s head drunk on alcohol and desire, he couldn’t say no if he tried. “What are you wearing underneath your clothes?” He huffs with laughter, trying to hide the abrupt jump in his pants. “Brash.”

“You don’t like that?” 

“I like whatever you’re serving.” Bruce takes a good hard look at Clark, devouring him with his hot gaze. Seems like he had only one thing on his mind all day. Clark shivers at the thought that he was more important than the meetings, money, and impending doom of Luthor’s empire. “Good.” Bruce says quietly. “I just want to be the kind of guy you like.”

“You are.”

“Didn’t seem like it when I first met you.”

“You caught me on a bad day. I’m usually way nicer.”

“I noticed. You’re…” Bruce bites his lower lip. One more word and Clark will be ready to suck him off in the bathroom stall. “You’re extraordinary, Clark. I want you to know that I haven’t met anyone like you in my entire life. You’re a dying species. Good and kind. I didn’t know people could be so selfless. You’ve impressed me like no other. I didn’t want to ruin your plan. I wanted to protect you. You’re worth protecting. That’s it. I hope you understand.” It feels like they’re all alone, with the way Bruce looks the other way as he speaks and how their bodies get more heated in the shared space that suddenly seems too small. “Bruce?” Clark croaks, unable to hold it in any longer. “Yeah?”

“I wanna take you home.” No one stops them from leaving and getting into the first cab. It’s one of the club’s vehicles with tinted windows and partitions. Clark is especially thankful for that because the second he gives the driver his address, Bruce is all over him. Their tongues meet with a wet sound. The air quickly gets sticky with lust. Clark gets bold and places his hand on Bruce’s crotch; he pushes into his palm, whimpering. “Don’t take things too far now, boy.” Bruce grabs him by the wrist. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” Clark admits, barely able to make his lungs work the way they should. Bruce nibbles at his ear, licking his earlobe with painfully long swipes. “And what were you thinking exactly, hmm?”

“About you in my bed.” Clark sneaks his hands beneath Bruce’s jacket. “What we could do there.”

“For example?” Clark knows what Bruce is asking. He couldn’t decide before but now it’s perfectly clear what he wants. He whispers into Bruce’s ear: “I want you to fuck my brains out,” and gets crushed with a hard, slippery kiss that shows Bruce’s approval.

Clark never realized how many keys he has until now. “Damn it,” he mutters when he can’t find the right one. Bruce stands behind his back, chuckling like there’s something funny, then licks Clark’s ear from the earlobe to the upper tip. “Fuck!” He drops the keys entirely. Bruce seems pleased that he has found Clark’s weak spot so easily. “Give me a second, okay?” After what feels like two thousand years, the key finds the lock and they come in tumbling. They end up on the floor, their coats and jackets flying everywhere. They’re impatient like kids on Christmas morning. Bruce is draped all over Clark, his knee between his legs and hands working at his shirt. “Bed,” Clark murmurs just in time. Bruce listens. They get rid of their shoes and socks before they land on the bed with a thud, too far gone to care about noises. Clark slowly traces Bruce’s chest and back, letting their bodies become alight with the rapid buildup for what’s about to happen. He’s shaking and he doesn’t bother; he can feel Bruce’s big, warm hands trembling against his skin. They’re kissing like it’s a new land they’re about to explore. Clark bites down on Bruce’s neck to really get a taste of his pulse, to hear this grown man scream and moan helplessly. In return Bruce slows down. His lips travel to Clark’s chest, nuzzling at the hair for a sweet minute, then get lower and lower to Clark’s throbbing dick. His underwear is burning his skin when Bruce decides to admire his hip with his tongue instead of following the route down under. “Don’t tease.” Clark begs shamelessly. That earns him a smirk and then finally some mercy: Bruce frees his dick and immediately has a taste of the thick precum. Clark’s world turns upside down. Why he didn’t come from just that is beyond his understanding but that’s good – he gets to enjoy Bruce’s mouth around his length, working him like they’ve done this many times before, and maybe they did by some impossible mindlink they must share. Is there any other explanation for how well Bruce knows his body, how easy it is to get on the edge under his careful ministrations. “Stop, stop.” He says when he feels the well-known knot tightening in his abdomen. Bruce seems confused but doesn’t ask any questions when he sees Clark reaching for lube and condoms. “I’ll take care of that.” He takes Clark’s pants all the way down, leaving him exposed. “You’re amazing.” It sounds truthful, especially when he leans right between Clark’s buttocks. A loud _oh _escapes his mouth when Bruce works at his hole with his tongue. “Fuck, Bruce, just fuck me now…”

“Say my name again.” An opulent amount of lube shows up on his fingers. “Bruce, fuck me,” Clark cries out, not caring that he sounds like a whore. “Bruce, please. I’ve been waiting so long, Bruce, ah…!” The lube is cold against his warmed up insides. He dreaded this moment but he’s so turned on his body opens up like a shell on the high tide. Bruce’s fingers are thicker than his and he will get to experience the billion dollar dick too, the very thought turning his muscles into liquid. He can’t wait; he pushes Bruce’s hands aside and unzips his pants, weighing the meaty, hot flesh before he takes it out to see… “Oh my God.” He hoped for it, he expected it, but when faced with reality, he’s having a breakdown. “What?” Bruce looks utterly lost. “You are rich,” Clark says, already out of breath, “you’re gorgeous, you care about people… and you have a huge dick.”

“Are you… Are you crying?”

“I’m just so happy.” Clark giggles, unable to deal with that volume of joy. “Please, please make a good use of it.”

“You greedy little thing.” Bruce puts on a condom, then places Clark’s right leg on his shoulder. “Ask for it,” he commands with the tip of his manhood pointed at the clenching hole. “Please, fuck me Bruce.” He follows his request with a desperate kiss. “Please, I want you in me, I’ll be so good to you.”

“Beg.”

“Please, please,” Clark tries to impale himself on Bruce’s expectant dick. “I’ll do anything you want, you can fuck any me anytime you like, just please, please do it…” His prayers have been answered. The sudden push punches the air out of him since Bruce forced his entire length inside in one movement. It’s a tight fit and it hurts a little but Clark wouldn’t have it any other way. They rock in unison, Clark’s hands on Bruce’s back, moaning quietly, stealing each other’s breaths. It’s perfect, the rhythm their bodies fall into, compared only to Earth circling the Sun. “Harder.” Clark asks, swiping the sweat from Bruce’s forehead. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, baby.” Bruce growls, his eyes dark like the night. “Show me then.” Before he knows it, Clark is on his stomach. Bruce grabs him by the hips and lifts him up. He pushes in confidently, giving Clark some time to adjust, then steadily speeds up. The bed starts to move with the power of his thrust and Clark can’t help but think, was it the humble job at the coffee shop? Was it the charity work? Was it the five dollar bill he threw on the collection plate last time he went to Smallville? He doesn’t know what he did to deserve such a good fucking, but he’s beyond thankful. He grips the sheets and just holds on for the ride. “Yeah!” He screams when Bruce just straight up rams it in and out, leaving his body entirely and then coming back in full force. “You like that?” Bruce asks and pulls his hair a little too hard – just how he likes it. Clark can almost see the back of his skull. It’s so good he doesn’t even need to stroke himself. Bruce changes the pace to quick and short digs, slapping his ass repeatedly. That’s when Clark reaches for his abandoned member, hard and leaking on the sheets. “Come for me.” Bruce orders him and who’s Clark to be disobedient like that?

Stars explode under his eyelids when the pressure gets released. He screams into the pillow, tapping on the mattress because he wants it to stop, it’s so much it kind of brings him pain, but then again he doesn’t want it to end, ever. Bruce pushes his head further into the pillow, reminding him of his place, where he belongs, then comes with a moan. Clark can feel his dick inside of him twitching slightly and feels satisfied. Only then he realizes how sweaty he is. Bruce doesn’t pull back right away; he leans into Clark and nuzzles at his nape. Clark finds his hand and holds it tight, slowly coming back to his senses. It feels like the weight of the world has been taken off his shoulders. “Can I stay for the night?” Bruce asks, suddenly sheepish. “Of course. I got you a toothbrush.”

“So this was your plan all along?”

“It worked like a charm.” They’re too tired to laugh, so they just kiss lazily, at an awkward angle that’s somehow just right. The world doesn’t stop turning. The clock is still ticking. But for one flawless moment, everything is just the way it’s supposed to be.


	11. EPILOGUE

_One year later…_

Theme of the wedding is champagne gold.

Lois flew to Milan to buy the perfect pair of golden Valentino high heels. Her dress was a surprisingly conservative choice: she even went all in with a diadem and a veil that makes her look like a real princess. Diana’s outfit was a stark contrast to her newly wedded wife’s attire: her gown was made of silk the color of wheat, styled a little like antique Greek tunics. Paired with flat shoes, her look was a reminder of caryatids holding up the roofs of ancient temples. She still towers over Lois when they kiss at the altar. To surprise of absolutely no one, they weren’t the center of attention: little Jon Ptolemy stole all of it simply by existing.

The wedding planner perfectly captured the style and wishes of the newlywed couple. Everything from decorations to food and drinks was elegant but not snobby in the slightest. Lois let Diana have her choice of the cake – lemon instead of red velvet like she wanted. Nonetheless, the taste was divine. Every fork on the tables had a little note attached by a golden string. The note said “thank you for sharing our first meal as Mrs. and Mrs.”

After the dinner, the band started playing a mix of jazz classics and more contemporary hits. Arthur and Mera became the king and queen of the dance floor in a heartbeat. Whispers in the corners of the room speculated that they were the next pair to get married.

Far away from the dancing crowd, Barry and Iris have a blast playing drunken charades with a group of other guests. Clark recognizes Donna and Jimmy among them. Vic and his date, Raven, were nowhere to be seen, but somehow no one was worried about those two.

It’s getting darker outside, but there aren’t that many sources of artificial light in the room. Instead, the hosts light up hundreds of candles. Golden decorations glimmer in the warm fire. It’s beautiful. “This is the fanciest wedding reception I’ve ever been to,” Clark confesses to Bruce. He would feel painfully out of place if it wasn’t for the new suit Bruce bought for him: midnight blue three piece, white shirt and red tie with shoes to match everything. He still isn’t entirely comfortable when Bruce spends money on him but now he’s grateful that he didn’t protest when they went shopping. His salary, although much better than a year before, doesn’t allow for high quality clothes. Besides, Bruce likes to provide. It’d be a terrible crime to take that away from him. They sip drinks by the bar and observe the guests from safe distance. “Let me guess,” Bruce prompts, “there’s no place for a wedding like a barn.”

“I bet you didn’t even _see_ a real barn with your own two eyes, city slicker.”

“Don’t bet on that,” Bruce smirks. His tie is already undone. Clark can see the dip beneath his neck and a fragment of smooth skin, witnesses up close the way Bruce’s throat works when he drinks his scotch. All of this is very pleasant to Clark’s slightly inebriated brain. “What was the most ridiculous thing you’ve seen at a rich people wedding?” He asks. The answer doesn’t come up right away; Bruce wonders for a solid minute before replying. “Once I saw a bride with a very long veil that was carried by eight specially trained peacocks.”

“You did not…”

“Oh yes, I did. Now I remember. It was Amanda’s Beaumont wedding. Not sure if she’s still married to the guy.”

“You didn’t like him?”

“I used to hate him,” Bruce sounds serious but smiles anyway. “Why? Did he steal Amanda from you and all you could do was to watch their happiness from afar?”

“Actually… yes.” Bruce quirks his eyebrow a little. Merriment dances in his smile lines. Clark waits for a punchline but there’s none. “You loved her.”

“Back then I thought it was love. Now I’m not so sure.” Bruce stares at Arthur who performs a very spot on impersonation of John Travolta. “But the time didn’t feel right. I had so many doubts. I thought… I don’t know. It was so long ago. I think I felt that I should do something different with my life than just settle down at young age. If I really loved her, I wouldn’t let these thoughts stop me, right?”

“Perhaps you were just cautious.” Clark gulps his drink in hopes it’ll wash away the bitter taste of jealousy. “In the end, she agreed to be stolen by another guy. It was her own will. I doubt she was forced into wedlock by her parents. Or was she?”

“Not that I’ve heard of.”

“Well then, there you have it. She’d say no if she wanted to be with you.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Bruce puts an empty glass on the counter. “God, I was such a brat back then. For a while I dated a girl Amanda despised just to get a reaction out of her. The girl didn’t know about it by the way. Her name was Silver.”

“Silver?” Clark really shouldn’t be surprised at this point, yet here he is. “Silver Saint Cloud?”

“Yeah, you met her?”

“Silver Saint Cloud, the first woman president of the American Broadcast Association?”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Think I vouched for her when that dick Preston tried to sabotage her candidacy.” Clark chuckles quietly. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Clark, we promised to each other we wouldn’t play this game anymore.” This is true. A few months back they had a huge fight over one too many cases of “try to figure out what it means.” Clark sighs. They’re both awful when it comes to talking about feelings. No need to make it even worse, especially today. “Some people think I got promoted because of you.”

“I have no business in the Daily Planet.”

“You know how people are. They think Lois got me the job because she’s a legend, you got me the senior writer position because you’re… you, and I happen to fuck with you.”

“Big fan of the fucking part.”

“Not helping.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much I can do.” Bruce does look saddened. “You know none of this is true. You got where you are because you’re a damn good reporter.”

“Damn good reporter that needs another drink.”

“Now _that_ is something I can do.” Bruce raises his hand just a little and the bartender seems to appear by their side out of thin air. They order another round of scotch. Back on the dance floor, Diana and Lois are dancing slowly with Jon Ptolemy in their arms. It’s almost his bedtime so the nanny is ready to scoop him up any minute now. They all look blissful.

Bruce gets closer to Clark who’s too enchanted with the little family to notice his moves. Then he gently directs Clark’s chin to his face and gives him a quick kiss on the lips. It’s startling – Bruce doesn’t like public displays of affection. Even tonight he limited himself to holding Clark’s hand under the table. Seems like the enchantment got to him as well. They don’t say anything for a moment. “You do know what today is, right?” Clark asks.

“How could I forget,” Bruce bites down on his lower lip. “The best watered down coffee I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Watered down?! Victor gave his all to that bull’s eye!”

“You remember what I ordered.”

“That coffee changed my entire life, you do know that.”

“Mine too.” They smile shyly at each other. “You know,” Bruce breaks the silence, “sometimes I suspect that all of my relationships failed because I was waiting for you.” Clark’s cheeks turn red. He wishes he could stop it from happening but just like with most things in his life, he can only accept it because that’s just the way he is. It’s not bad at all. Bruce’s October eyes are earnest and full of fondness. “My my, you truly are one of a kind, mister Wayne.” Clark can feel his voice getting lower and more seductive. He has to tone it down a little, otherwise his heart is going to burst with joy. “I don’t need to be one of a kind,” Bruce whispers. “I just wanna be the kind of guy you like.” There goes Clark’s plan of toning it down. Bruce’s words, his eyes are so hypnotizing that Clark has no idea how to respond. There is no way he could notice that the music stopped playing a while ago and that the wedding guests are gathering in the center of the room. He opens up his mouth in hopes that whatever words come out of it, they’ll be… sufficient, lovely, and maybe even a little romantic if he has any luck left–

Completely out of blue, something soft crashes on his face and almost knocks off his glasses. He blinks a few times before he realizes there’s a bouqet of white roses resting in his arms. Everybody cheers; Barry whistles with everything he has in his lungs. “Congratulations, Clark!” Diana yells happily, accompanied by Lois who looks very pleased with herself. “Congratulations to your wife,” Clark says. “Excellent aim.”

“It was the goddess Fortune who put the flowers in your hands! No one else!”

“Sure thing.” It’s one of those times Clark wishes he could disappear. Except… Bruce is still looking at him with the same fondness as before. He is amused, if the tiny smirk is any indication, but he doesn’t try to turn this situation into a joke. When Clark stands next to him, being visible to everyone doesn’t seem so scary anymore. Let them watch. Let them talk. That doesn’t matter. What matters is Bruce’s voice – like honey on gravel – when he asks in a hushed tone: “May I have this dance, future bride to be?” Clark chuckles and nods his head.

They sway slowly, perhaps a little too slowly to match the rhythm but it’s not like someone’s going to police them for it. It helps them avoid the problem of who’s actually leading in this dance. Bruce’s body is pressed firmly against Clark’s. They’re so close that Clark can smell his skin under the ridiculously expensive cologne. Their nice suits can’t hide the fact they’re very warm and the alcohol isn’t the only thing to blame. For a while Clark toys with a question in his head, thinking of how to put into words without sounding too desperate. “Would you like to be married someday?” He finally whispers into Bruce’s ear. “Yes. I’d like to.” Quick reply surprises him a little. “What?” Bruce looks at his face. “Did you think I’d say no?”

“No, I… Okay. I kind of thought you’d brush it off. Kind of no answer, that’s what I thought.”

“You still don’t believe in me,” Bruce smirks. “No, it’s not that. I just don’t wanna hurry,” Clark explains. They keep swaying to the music and maybe it’s the magic of the evening or the golden halo of candlelight around them but Clarks suddenly blurts out: “I wouldn’t let anyone steal me from you.”

“I’d never allow anyone to steal you from me.” Bruce tugs him even closer. “I love you.” Clark looks him in the eye and the words seem to flow right out of his bloodstream into the air between them: “I love you too.”

\---

The day after the wedding, Shirley Speaks posted a new blog entry. It was very short because the picture attached said more than a thousand words. It was a photo of Clark and Bruce kissing by the bar at a wedding reception – Jimmy took it and asked if he could sell it. They didn’t oppose to the idea.

_See? I told you it wasn’t the last time we would hear about Clark Kent. Sometimes fairytales do happen in real life. We need to remember about that. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ❤️ ZS


End file.
